Northern Star
by LadySmallwood08
Summary: Ashara Dayne danced with Ned Stark at a tourney. They were in love. Ned Stark married Catelyn Tully at his father's behest. They are in love. Despite any of this, two bastards stand at the mercy of the kingdoms, gods, and the people around them. This is a very complicated tale. A delicate one. (No Cat bashing; initial Ned/Ashara; rating will go up)
1. Ned I

ONE : NED (I)

The babe wailed in his arms as they approached.

Ned urged his mare onward, patiently, mindful of the red dust and sand her hooves kicked up. He cradled the babe closer to his chest so as to shield him from the outside air. Ned worried for him constantly; already this boy was as good as his own son.

Starfall was a welcome sight after these long days of travel. It was far less an imposing sight than Winterfell might have been, where Lordship awaited him — thrust upon un-wanting shoulders — with its high white towers and gleaming rivers that sparkled in the slight of the sun.

Ned breathed the sweet air deeply. It was not clouded or hazy but fresh. Howland, beside him, laughed with delight at the proposed prospect and spurred his gelding, which obediently rode onward. Ned followed at a less break-neck pace, clutching the boy tightly to him so that it might hear his fast beating heart. He had much fear coming to this place, with Ser Arthur Dayne's sword, Dawn, strapped across his back. What would Ashara say to him, when she saw it? When he told her it had been him to beat Arthur down so weak Howland barely had to thrust?

They crossed the drawbridge. The babe settled down to a slight whimper that broke Ned to pieces, for he knew that already there were a thousand things going wrong for this boy. Perhaps the babe knew that, too.

In the courtyard of Starfall — which was large and grand, with the banners of House Danye standing still for there was no wind all around them — a Maester was waiting to receive them. His robes were purple and his chain was long. It rattled as he approached.

"Lord Stark," he called. Ned winced at the title, for was not meant to be a Lord; Brandon had been. Brandon had been betrothed to Catelyn. Brandon had been advised by Father and stayed in the north while Ned had been carted off to the Eyrie. Brandon, Brandon, Brandon. His wolf brother. Perhaps there was a slight bitterness, there. But along with it there was truth; Ned was young. He was mindless of the north, of its people. Perhaps it would have been better if it had been him to die, rather than his brother.

Ned pushed his thoughts away and, though he had not the whit for pleasantries, slipped from his mount and landed, babe tight in his arms and silent. "You are the Maester, here?"

"Yes, my lord," the man smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling. "Maester Justyn, if it pleases you."

"Aye," Ned nodded to him, and Howland drifted to Ned's side. "This is... Lord Reed of Greywater Watch."

It was so odd to address him as such; Howland, despite being the rightful lord of the Neck, was first and foremost in Ned's mind a friend. He was the only man in the entire realm to have stuck by Ned's side as they grieved the worst of the war — the only one to have fought by him and lived to tell the tale. For that, he had earned both Ned's trust and his loyalty.

Master Justyn bobbed his head. "A pleasure," he said. "Now, I expect your journey has been long and most difficult in these war-torn times. Chambers have been set up for you, and your companion. When you are rested, fed, and bathed, Lady Ashara wishes to speak with you."

"There is no need," Ned said, handing the babe off to Howland, who started. "I would see her now."

"My lord—"

"I thank you, Maester," Ned stripped off his gloves, "if you could show Lord Reed to the prepared chambers?"

The Maester hesitated, eyes flickering to the swaddled babe in Howland's arms, and then nodded. "Yes, my lord."

Ned hurried past him and walked far enough before he realised that he did not know the way around Starfall at all. In another life, perhaps he might have. Perhaps he should have professed his love for Ashara before everything had fallen apart. But Rhaegar had taken that from him... and Lyanna, too.

He asked a stable boy for directions to the Great Keep of the castle, where he figured the lord's chambers, solar, and lady's counterparts would be. The boy gave him startled and hesitant directions which turned out to be well-versed, for moments later Ned found himself stood before a thick oak door with a falling star etched into the wood.

His hand twitched, but Ned stayed it. What if she did not want to see him? What if she hated him, or rejected the babe? It was wrong of him to thrust such a weight upon her. Wrong to expect so much from a person whom he had given so little. But he had to have strength. He had to face the rejection with his own eyes. To hear her curses and raging with his own ears. _Hold your courage in your heart, dear Ned, not your hands,_ his mother had warned him, just before she had died. Ned could recall the day with absolute clarity; her frail and broken form lying in a bed of furs, with sunken cheeks and an ashen face. He had held one of her bony hands and she had wiped his tears with the other.

Drawing in a deep breath to suppress his shaking, Ned knocked.

In the moment it took her to answer, Ned remembered his last words to Ashara, the woman he loved; _You hold my heart. Keep it safe for me._ She had smiled, delicately but sharp, and kissed him in that deep way that warmed his whole body.

Cat had never kissed him like that. Cat would never love him like that. Nor he, her. He felt like a traitor to know that, but all the same, how could he expect something of a woman who did not know him? They were strangers, he and Catelyn Tully. Strangers who had married at the behest of their fathers.

The door swung open and Ned's heart stopped. There she was, standing before him. Alive and breathing with the same face he recalled every night in his dreams; high cheekbones and pale skin that glowed like the moon. Dark hair which tumbled round her shoulders in loose tresses, and a dress of her house colours.

But there were differences, as well. Her lips were twisted into not a grin but a frown, and her stomach... Was swollen. Hips wider than he remembered them to have been. A silver-and-amethyst belt hanging under her protruding belly.

"Ashara..." He whispered, eyes filling with tears at the sight of his love.

She gasped sharply when she recognised him, which must not have been easy considering Ned was covered in such dust and dirt and blood — and a bit of baby spit-up, as well. Despite all this she drew him into her arms and pressed her lips to his own, fiercely.

Ned felt ashamed when he embraced her in return. He had a wife, and an unborn child. And yet here was this woman who knew him and loved him, willing and true. Here was Ashara Dayne — lovely and kind and strong. Her laugh was like water over stones, her eyes like a sunset sky. He was both ashamed at loving her and ashamed at having left her.

He pulled away and cupped her cheek with a grimy hand, wincing at the contrast between the two of them.

"Oh, Ned," she whispered, tears slipping from her perfect purple eyes. "I have missed you so, so deeply..."

"And I, you," Ned murmured in kind, wiping away her sadness. "But Ashara—"

It was in that moment that she slipped out of his arms, eyes wide and mouth gaping. "Why is Arthur's sword on your back?"

Dread filled him as he drew it for her to see. Gently he placed it upon the table that now stood between them. Ashara sobbed, for she knew what it meant. She ran her fingers over the rippling metal. Ned made to hold her, but she skirted away from him, rather curling up within herself. "This was forged from a fallen star," she told him, once she had cried all she could over the blade. "And now my brother has joined that which shines above us. How did he die?"

Ned could not avoid the truth any longer. "I... My sister Lyanna was being kept here, in Dorne. Did you know?"

Her eyes were unfocused. She shook her head. "N-no..."

Ned bit into his lip. "Your brother was guarding her. On the orders of the Prince, I presume. I, along with six other men, attempted to pass. Your brother remained strong in his will to drive us off. A fight started, and he fell."

"At who's hand?"

Ned swallowed. He stared at the sharp edge of Dawn.

" _At who's hand_ , Ned?"

He looked up, to see that she was just as afraid as he was. "Mine and my companion's," he whispered into the solemn silence that had befallen them both.

Ashara slowly lowered her body into a chair across from him. She whimpered, digging her nails into her palms. "No..." She whispered. "No! Do not let it be true!" She was staring up at the ceiling, now, begging to the gods.

Gods had no mercy. How could they, after stealing his sister, brother, father and mother from him?

But no. Brandon and Father had died at the hand of Aerys the Mad King. Ned ground his teeth. Death had surrounded them all, grabbing at their throats and choking them, taking away what little life remained.

"It is true," he said to Ashara. "And it grieves me to confirm it. Ashara... I never wanted him to die. You must know that. You must know that I-I just wanted to see my sister—"

Ashara's face was buried in her satins and silks. She was shaking, fingers tangled in her hair. "It was war that killed him," she hissed sharply, eyes fire when they met his own. "War and blood and foolishness."

"He was a brave man," Ned told her. "He died as brave men do." _Stabbed in the back, for brave men fight only cowards and cravens._

Ashara nodded. "And a good one, too," she said. "You cannot often find both."

"He served his King well," Ned's voice trembled.

Ashara only frowned. "But... Rhaegar was still a Prince in the end. Was it Aerys who ordered him to stay with Rhaegar?"

He had to tell her. She had every right to know, unlike so many. If there was any soul in the realms whom deserved to be told the truth, it was Ashara Dayne. Ned took a hesitant step forward and laced his hands together. "He guarded his king," he told her. "The son of Lyanna and Rhaegar."

Her mouth fell open. He could see the gooseprickles that crept their way up her arms to her neck. "You cannot be—"

"I am," Ned insisted. His heart felt heavy at the knowledge. "I swear to you, Ashara, I do not jest. Lyanna... She birthed a child and died doing it."

"And where is this babe?" Ashara demanded, rising to her feet and skirting around to face him. She grabbed his hands in her own and stared up at him with earnest eyes. "Where is this king, who killed my brother?"

"He did not kill Arthur," Ned snapped, feeling the tendrils of his heart tighten. He was being torn in two directions. "He is an innocent child, Ashara. You would fault him for being borne to such a fate, and yet you will not bestow such a reckoning upon me?"

She flushed. "Perhaps you are right," she acclaimed testily. "Even so..." but then, all of the sudden, her chin quivered. "I do not know what to think, any longer," she whispered. "Where is he, Ned?"

Ned almost smiled. He would have, if his pain had not been so great. "In your guest chambers I expect," he told her. "With my man Howland Reed."

Ashara nodded. Her face had turned serious. Gently she cupped his face in her warm hands. "I love the man who took part in slaying my brother," she whispered. Her words cut him like nothing ever had and he winced, though he knew that he deserved the pain. "Oh, Ned, what am I going to do with you?"

Ned rested his forehead against her own, and succumbed to his feelings as he held her. When his lids snapped shut he saw Cat's face, absent of even warmth as she looked upon him. Ashara had warmth even now. He rested his hands on her swollen stomach. Unless she had taken a husband — which he knew not to be for it would have been said; spread across the seven kingdoms like wildfire, and she would not be holding him now — then the child she had carried was his own.

"The babe is yours," Ashara confirmed breathlessly, breathing him in. Her arms were around us shoulders and her lips were hot against his neck. "A little girl. Alysanne."

Ned blinked. He felt the first springs of hope sprouting within him. "Can I meet her?"

* * *

Ashara led him through the halls of her home, tear-stained cheeks catching in the light of the sun whenever they passed a window. Ned's heart, which had been so hollow that morning, now was dancing and pounding with a string of nerves he so rarely felt.

A baby. His daughter. The idea was so incomprehensible, so inconceivable, that a part of him still could not believe it.

On the door of a chamber beside that of Ashara's there was a wreath of flowers — white and purple and blue — tacked up and beautiful. A gift, Ned assumed, though from who he knew not. Ashara paused, sensing his trepidation.

"She is wonderful, Ned," Ashara told him, eyes dancing when before they had been dull. It was astonishing, the untold power of children. Then her voice lowered to a whisper. "Her eyes are grey."

Ned blinked, and then pushed open the door.

In the centre of the room there was a cot made of weirwood. Ned did not know where it had come from, but he knew that it was a gesture of this baby girl's heritage and he felt recognised by it. In the wood there were carved stars and wolves.

Ned leaned over the edge of the cot.

Inside, looking up at him as though she had been waiting for his arrival, was his little daughter. Alysanne.

She did indeed have his eyes, but if one looked close enough they were almost purple in hue. Her hair was dark like Ashara's, but wild like Lyanna's had been. Like her babe's was. Ned almost gasped at the similarities between all of them.

He reached out and stroked her pale unblemished cheek. Unmarked by the world, yet. Perfect and sweet. She cooed and Ned's heart leapt with something akin to joy and love. She looked so fragile. Ned was afraid that he would break her.

"Alys," he whispered. "My baby girl."

Ashara rested a hand upon his shoulder. She looked worried. "Will you... Will you acknowledge her? As your own?"

Ned swallowed. Alys cooed in the mindless way that babies do, delighted at the prospect of something new. "Aye," he said. "Of course." Looking down at his daughter, he thought of Lyanna's babe again. Something struck him. "Do you think..."

"What, Ned?" Ashara leaned forward, beaming down at their daughter and stoking her belly lovingly.

"Lyanna's babe looks much like her," Ned whispered, terrified at his own plan. Shame and horror filled him. Before, he had only meant for Ashara to keep his sister's child safe until war inevitably broke out. But if they could avoid that altogether...

At once Ashara connected the pieces. "Alys is only a month and a half old," she whispered back, face bright with knowledge. "They could easily be passed off as twins. One accident. No one must ever know the truth."

"Only you, me, and Howland," Ned said firmly.

Ashara's lower lip quavered. "Will you take them with you?" She murmured. "To Winterfell? Will you take my baby away from me?"

Ned was torn. On one hand, he wished nothing more than to have his daughter with him for always, to be able to keep his nephew safe, but... "No," he said. "But I want to visit. As often as I can. And I might call for them both one day as my son and daughter."

"They will be legitimate," Ashara said firmly. It was already 'they'. "Do you understand me, Ned? For the pain you brought with you, leave some joy as you go? They do not deserve to be looked down upon when they visit the north."

Ned knew that Catelyn would never forgive him. She would hate that these two southron wolves lived and claimed Winterfell while their child could not. And so he could not, as well. "I... It will not be."

Ashara drew away. She circled the crib so that she was opposite him, glaring like a hawk. "Alysanne is your daughter," she hissed. "You will disgrace her with the name of a bastard? With the title of one?"

"I..." Ned's mind was reeling. "She will be raised in Starfall. The south. She will not know the north and the north will not know her. They will not trust her — nor the Targaryen babe."

Ashara shuddered. "Leave her to be a Sand, then," she growled. "Leave them both with me and go back to your cold hard north and your unloving wife. Leave us broken and alone to rejoin your family, Eddard Stark."

Ned winced. "I would not hurt my lady wife so," he whispered.

"These are your children!" Ashara yelled. The baby whimpered. At once they both leaned over Alys to shush her. Their heads knocked. Ashara backed away, clutching her forehead. "You dishonour them!"

"No," he said. "I would dishonour my wife and unborn child — who will be raised in Winterfell."

"I was to be your wife, once," Ashara said. "I was to bear your children and live with you in the north, while my brother ruled Starfall. But you have crushed both of those dreams, today. Leave my presence, Lord Stark. I would not look upon your face any longer."

* * *

Howland knocked on the door to Ned's chambers once they had both washed and rested. The little man slipped in when Ned prized open the heavy slab of wood that separated him from the hall. His friend held two horns of ale and a plate of cheese and meat. "I thought we might dine together?"

Ned nodded, tiredly. Howland sat on the trunk at the end of Ned's bed and so he matched from him. They shared the food while the Targaryen baby cooed in the corner. "Has he eaten?" Howland asked.

"Aye," Ned said. "A nursemaid came by and fed him."

The short man nodded. "Have you decided what to call him?"

Ned sighed. He cut up a bit of the chicken and chewed it, considering his answer. "Jon," he decided.

"After Jon Arryn?" Howland asked.

"Aye," Ned said. "The man raised me well. He is honourable. I do not see why I should not honour him in return for all he has done for me."

"Will he bear the surname of Snow, Sand, or Stark?"

Ned's head snapped around. "I do not know," he snapped, still sore from Ashara's accusations. "Need I have the answer to every damned question, Howland? Gods above, he is not yet a fortnight old!"

Howland winced. "Easy, friend," he amended. "I was merely curious. It is in my nature, as you well know."

Ned lowered his gaze, ashamed. He was becoming a monster. "I do not yet know," Ned said, again — this time far quieter. He was troubled greatly. "I quarrelled with Ashara over the issues of legitimisation."

"As I expected," Howland nodded. "And yet she agreed to foster the boy?"

"To raise him as her own," Ned corrected firmly, meeting the brown eyes of his travel companion. "Along with my daughter, Alysanne."

Howland nearly spit up his ale. Quickly the young lord composed himself and wiped the spittle from his chin. "Gods above," he muttered. "Two children? You have a daughter, Ned! We should be celebrating!"

He raised his horn and toasted Ned's daughter.

Ned frowned. "What is there to celebrate? She will live a hard life — one of dishonour and hatred and self-pity, and I can do nothing to stop it."

"You can take her north," Howland said.

Again, Ned found himself lashing out in anger. "No!"

Howland raised an eyebrow. Ned knew what was coming; he had spent enough time around Howland Reed to know that it was in the man's nature to be inquisitively intrusive. Howland was of the belief that to expose emotions was to make them true. Purely feeling them was not enough for him. "Are you ashamed of her?"

Ned's breath caught. He could not lie. Not after every other sin. "I am."

Howland nodded solemnly. "Well, then I will offer you some advice," he said, rising from the bed though it did little to no favours for his height. "Get over yourself, Eddard Stark. You claim that to live the life of a bastard is to be absorbed in self-pity and shame? Then I hence name you a bastard. This is unbelievable! I thought you were a man of honour." Howland shook his head, disgusted. "Grow up, Ned."

Feeling weak, Ned asked, "How?"

"The world does not know," Howland said, quieter now, though his eyes still held a deadly solemnity. "But this is not the way. You will acknowledge that girl, and one day you will take her home with you and show her the north. They are her lands, as they are your own." His friend softened. "What is she like, then?"

Ned almost rolled his eyes. "She is a small little thing," he told Howland, "though I expect she will be larger than you within the week."

Howland burst into laughter. It was a rare sight and it made Ned smile, though he still felt dour. "Gods be good, Ned, I didn't know you had a sense of humour." He chuckled to himself, eyes dancing.

Ned pushed away the plate of food, without an appetite, and stood. He walked slowly over to the cot where the baby Jon lay and picked him up, bouncing him a bit. He truly did greatly resemble Alys; their complexion was the same, and even his eyes had that haunting purple tint — no doubt given to him by Rhaegar — that could easily be explained as the son of Ashara Dayne.

"Jon..." Ned held up the little baby, still a bit pink from his bath. "Jon Sand. Jon Snow. Jon Stark. Jon Dayne."

He sighed. Howland set their plate and cups on a table by the door and made to leave. "You must decide soon, my friend," he said. "His Grace Robert Baratheon will expect us back in King's Landing."

Ned's stomach curled at the thought. He inclined his chin to Howland and the little lord slipped out.

Jon cooed again. His face was long, like Ned's, and solemn. The face of a Stark, trueborn or not. Alysanne had the same face. Ned wondered if some would tease them for it as Lyanna had been — as he had, in the Eyrie.

Quietly Ned pulled open the door and slipped outside into the hall. It was late afternoon, Ned realised with a start. Had he truly slept for that long?

Jon fussed in Ned's arms, little pink hands reaching up at nothing. Ned kissed his brow and kept walking, books echoing on the tiled floor. He passed many things on his way to Alys' nursery; mosaics of stars and dragons, and snakes in the sand. Beautiful tightly woven tapestries. Bouquets of bright flowers stood on polished wooden tables.

This place was warm and bright and homely, though it was no home to Ned.

Ned pushed open the door. The colourful wreath shook when he did so. Inside, Alysanne was giggling and gurgling. Her crib was large enough, he decided, and set Jon down beside his cousin. No — his sister.

* * *

 **AN: Right! Chapter One, you lot! There's been some tentative adjustments to the canon timeline. Basically, in this story, the Harrenhal Tourney happened (and Ned/Ashara did the nasty-nasty), and here we are nearing on a year later. Is that how it happened? Anyway!**

 **I know that Ned/Ashara is a bit contradictive... But when you're smitten, un-betrothed, a second son, and you've had enough wine... Well, that's enough to sway anyone's moral code of conduct. So, yes, Brandon/Ashara is more realistic, but for the purposes of this story, it's a no. Sorry.**

 **Anyway, much love. And if you want another chapter tomorrow, just comment!**

 **AN 2: Updated as of 22/9/16, to add a few bits and bobs.**


	2. Ashara I

TWO : ASHARA (I)

He departed on the morn, with a kiss to the brow of both Alys and Jon, and even one to her, despite their quarrel last night. She felt his love in the gesture, and that reassured her that she was making the right choice.

She was going to miss him, but it would shame the memory of her brother less the sooner he was gone. That morning Ashara spent with her daughter and the Targaryen babe — Jon, Ned had told her — who was now her son.

Alysanne already adored him. Together they rolled around in their shared bed, bonding as brother and sister. Ashara had ordered more blankets and toys to be fashioned for him, in colours of green and blue and purple and white, which raised an eyebrow or two — as did the sudden appearance of the boy. But Ashara knew that the people here could be trusted.

If they could not, then who?

At high noon Maester Justyn shuffled in, carrying a few bound scrolls and smiling with ease. He did not seem surprised at the sight of little Jon, but then again it had been he who greeted Lord Stark the day before.

"No one must know," she found herself telling the short, middle-aged man. "Can you insure that all of the handmaidens and guards are assured that I bore twins? Lie to them, blackmail them, have them killed if you must."

Was she truly willing to kill for this boy? Ashara looked at him, one hand snaked through the bars of the cot. As though sensing her distress he grabbed her finger with his tiny pink hands and gripped it. She almost smiled.

"My Lady," Justyn nodded gravely and shuffled a bit closer, chain clinking to the delight of Alysanne. "I will do what must be done, though I doubt it will come to executions."

Ashara nodded, biting down on her lip. "What of my brother?"

It hurt that she no longer needed to specify which one for Justyn to understand. The little things brought her pain even more than the reality of his absence; Alys would never know her uncle. Allyria would grow up hearing about her brave brother, the Sword of the Morning, and yet she would be too young to remember his face.

Justyn cleared his throat. "Lord Dayne is still in Blackhaven, my lady," he said to her. "He sent a raven — he said not to expect him for some time."

Ashara took it, but could not bear to read the words. Through the thin parchment she could see his dastardly handwriting, which Mother had always desired for him to fix. But Aron was too far gone in his penmanship; he would never improve.

She smiled sadly. "Is there anything else, Maester?"

"Yes, my lady," Justyn crept forward. "Your sister is to arrive from Sunspear in a few hours. I have seen to it that preparations have been made for her rooms and, if you wish it, there are plenty of provisions for a welcome feast—"

"A _welcome feast?!_ " Ashara rounded on the little man, outraged that he would dare suggest they celebrate anything at all during these dark days. "My brother has just died. I have two children to care for — three, now, with my sister. I have not the time for such trivial matters, Maester Justyn."

She turned back to her babes, who were lying on their bellies and looking up at her with their grey eyes. "You are dismissed," she told the Maester.

Once he had shuffled out, Ashara knelt on the floor and sobbed.

* * *

Her sister arrived just when the Maester said she would.

Allyria looked well, and tired. She was not yet six but still she carried the great burden of grief upon her slight shoulders. She wore a black dress, embroidered with purple, and her hair had been tied back in an amethyst net. A miniature version of Ashara herself.

She greeted her sister with a tight embrace and a kiss to both cheeks. Their tears touched.

"Oh, Ashara," she whimpered. "They say he died... Is it true? Is our dear brother gone?"

"Yes, my sweet sister," she took the girl's hand and nodded to the ladies waiting behind — her nursemaid and septa — and led her inside the castle. "Arthur fell in battle, little Ally. His sword was brought home, but not his bones."

Allyria sobbed, and so Ashara stopped their trek. They were halfway to Allyria's bedchamber, which was only across from Ashara's, but she was struck with a better idea. Kneeling down, she dried Allyria's cheeks and smiled softly. She had to be brave, like Arthur. "In war many die, my sweet sister," she said, "but there are also those who are born; gifts from the gods to remind us how precious life truly is."

Allyria looked up, pink lips dipped into a perfect pout. "What do you mean?" She asked, with all of the innocence of a child.

Ashara quickly rose and pulled her along. "Come, now," she ordered. "I must show you."

They stopped before the door to the nursery. Allyria looked greatly confused, but it seemed for the first time that she noticed Ashara's slightly swollen belly — which grew smaller with every day that passed.

With a cry of delight Allyria pushed open the door and ran inside. In an instant she was bent over the two babes, cooing and giggling. Ashara rubbed her back. "Your niece and nephew; Jon and Alys."

"Oh, truly?" Allyria's eyes were earnest, wide and hopeful. She was such a sweet little thing.

"What reason do you have to doubt?" Ashara chuckled, avoiding an honest answer and circling the crib.

Her sister did not notice. She stroked Alys' hair and kissed Jon's brow, glowing, her grief forgotten in this moment of peace. "They're wonderful," she whispered in an awed tone. "Do you think Alys will be kind, like mother? And Jon brave like Arthur?"

"I do," Ashara said. "And I think Alys and Jon will adore their aunt."

"That's me," Allyria whispered, eyes on the babes. "Oh, this is going to be great fun!"

Ashara laughed. "Yes," she said. "It will."

* * *

Allyria and she dined on sweetcrab, buttered bread, boiled eggs and honeyed ham that night. Allyria went on about her time in Sunspear and her dear friend Sarella, who was fierce and strong but quick to laugh. Ashara was grateful that her sister did not resent Ashara for sending her off. It had been to prevent her from knowing about Alys; her shame and now her life.

Over a bowl of sugared oats that they shared, Allyria confessed that she had snuck out riding with Arianne Martell, once. She felt guilt over the whole affair, but Ashara reminded her that sometimes people must do rash things to remember the difference between good and bad, and her sister nodded — at last feeling peace.

Then they reminisced over the family they had lost; Mother, Father, and Arthur, whom had been so good and honest, and deserved better than to die in war.

At last Allyria asked the question Ashara had been most dreading. "Who slew him? Our brother?"

"A northman," Ashara told her, purposefully vague. "A man of high honour. It was an accident. You must hold no grudge against him."

Allyria nodded. "Arthur would not want that, anyway," she said quietly. "He would want us to mourn him, not avenge him."

"Arthur was no vengeful soul," Ashara agreed with a nod. They finished dessert in peace and then Ashara pushed back from the table. "You must sleep, sweet sister," she said firmly. "Your journey was long."

Allyria, to her surprise, nodded. "Goodnight, Ashara," she said, reaching up to kiss her cheek. And then she walked from the chamber. Ashara was left alone with her thoughts; grief and guilt and uncertainty, and most of all pain.

She crawled under the thin covers of her bed and stroked the silken sheets, trying to sort through her feelings. Alys and Jon were a bright spot in this dark world, she decided, and she would raise Jon as her own and love him as her own. As a matter of fact, there was already a blossoming affection there which she hoped would grow as he did.

* * *

 _4 years later — Starfall_

The babes ran though the halls, giggling and calling out to each other in their child voices. To Ashara, the sound was sweet; it brought happiness to this otherwise lonely place.

Not so lonely anymore, she reminded herself; not with Allyria here and Aron back at long last. He had elected to take over the position of Lord, but as his sister she was still Lady — doing the tasks her mother had done. There was no time for sewing, thank the Gods, but Ashara still found spare moments to walk with her sister though the gardens or go riding with her brother.

Most of her time, however, was spent on Jon and Alys. True to herself she loved them both greatly. They were her pride and joy. Allyria felt the same, and she knew Aron bore affection for them. Perhaps given time that affection would grow, but he had only been back for two months.

Ashara sat in the Lady's solar, reading through the messages which were not as important according to her brother; wine merchants, trading deals with the Reach, shipments of Arbor gold from the Redwynes, and... A raven from Lord Eddard Stark.

Ashara had set that one aside to read last, for it was personal business she guessed and had nothing to do with matters of Ladyship. She concocted replies to Ser Danyo, Lord Mace Tyrell, and Lord Redwyne.

With great trepidation she reached for the letter, which was bound with a white wax seal bearing the sigil of House Stark; a snarling direwolf. She ripped it open and read.

 _Lady Ashara Dayne,_

 _I am writing to inform you that I have a great wish to see my son and daughter — now that they have reached four years of age I feel that they must know the face of their father._

 _If you have alternate plans or wishes please write back; I will not depart on any journey until I receive a reply, I promise you. I expect any travels to take up to three months, though with a smaller party perhaps I could make it in half that time._

 _Well wishes,_

 _Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell; Warden of the North_

Ashara stared down at his kind words and felt her heart break all over again. During these past four years, she had felt herself distance away from Ned. She had felt an abyss form between them, but the children they shared had formed a bridge of sorts; a connection that could not be broken, no matter how hard she tried.

Ashara wiped her eyes and sighed. She would reply in the morning, after thinking the matter through.

Gently she folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her gown, which was purple gossamer with Myrish lace on the sleeves and hemming. A perfect representation of the colours of her House. No longer did she mourn. She stood and left the solar, feeling cramped all of the sudden.

Ashara made her way to the rookery, where dozens of ravens awaited a send-off. Ashara tied her replies to three and let them loose. When she turned around, she discovered Jon was watching her with curious eyes.

"What is it?" She asked of him, bending over so that their gazes would match. "Is something wrong, my sweet?" She lifted his chin. He looked a bit peaky, but otherwise well.

"M'fine," he said. "Why do the birds say 'corn'?"

Ashara smiled. "It's what they eat," she replied, taking his hand to lead him away. They descended the narrow steps together, her gait graceful whilst he hopped his way down like an excited hare.

"Corn is yucky," he told her, jumping off the last step. "Why eat corn when you can have sweets?"

"You can't always have sweets," she reminded him. "And ravens cannot eat the same things that we do."

Jon frowned. "Why not?"

Ashara laughed. "It makes them sick," she said, "and some things could kill them. You don't want the birds to die, do you?"

Jon shook his head. His hair was wild and tangled, a mass of dark curls not unlike Alysanne's. Ashara knelt down and smiled. "Who's been giving you sweets, Jon?" She asked playfully, knowing she had not of late.

Jon sheepishly scuffed his feet on the tile. "Uncle Aron," he admitted, cheeks streaked with pink. "And sometimes Auntie Ally."

Ashara laughed. She was glad her brother had taken so kindly to the children. "From now on, I advise you stash up those candies, Jon," she warned, "for I will have words with my brother about him fattening you up."

"I'm not fat!" Jon protested, wide-eyed.

Ashara poked his belly and he giggled. "You are if I say so," she told him, beaming at her baby boy. She kissed his brow. "Where is Alys, then?"

"The gardens," Jon replied. "Auntie Ally wanted to show her the poppies because it's spring, now."

Ashara nodded. "Do _you_ have a favourite flower, Jon?" They had resumed walking through brightly lit corridors; the walls were lined with open windows that overlooked the gardens and courtyard, depending on the side. Down below Ashara spotted her daughter running with Allyria, trying to catch a lizard it seemed.

"Boys can't like flowers," Jon protested, as though it was the most ridiculous thing for her to suggest.

"Oh, yes they can," Ashara assured him quickly, earnestly. "Why, the Tyrells in Highgarden are home to many boys who adore flowers, and there's nothing wrong with that."

Her voice was soft, but Jon appeared admonished anyway. "I like blue winter roses," he admitted at last, "but there's only one bush outside..."

Ashara smiled and picked him up. She carried him the rest of the way. "How about I write to my dear friend Lady Alerie and have a few sent here? I'm sure she would be delighted."

Jon beamed and promptly kissed her cheek.

They met Alys in the gardens. Ashara spent the rest of the afternoon watching her two children and Allyria splash in the pools and fountains, laughing. Aron came down after a while and kissed her cheeks in greeting. "They are happy today," he noticed.

"I promised Jon to send for blue roses from Highgarden," she said, smiling fondly. "And you must stop giving them sugar, Aron!"

Her brother laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that merry way they had done since he was a child. "Alright," he vowed. "I'll empty my pockets tonight. On the note of Highgarden, however, Mace Tyrell has requested that we visit. His lady wife misses your company, apparently, and they wish to meet your children."

Ashara nodded. "I do believe Loras and Margaery are the same age as Alys and Jon — or around there, at least. It will be good to see Alerie once more; we were great friends in court."

"That may be so, but relations between Dorne and the Reach have never been the fairest, sister," her brother smiled ruefully. "Dornishmen sacked Highgarden, and vipers killed their lord. I worry for your safety in such a place."

Ashara nodded solemnly. It was true, yes... "This is different," she decided. "I am friend to Lady Alerie. And Mace is a fat, old man. What has he to gain from attacking me or mine?"

"A war?" Aron suggested. "Vengeance?"

"No," Ashara thought both motives were quite weak. "We will go. It will help solidify friendships between Dayne and Tyrell."

Aron smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. "They wish for you to be there within a few weeks," he said. "There will be no need to send a raven for those roses; you may pluck them yourselves."

* * *

That night Ashara composed a letter to Ned, saying that she was sorry he could not visit at this time, for they would be in the Reach for a few months at least.

Aron would remain, but Ashara would take both the children and her sister, along with the nursemaids and septa. Highgarden had its own Maester and Mace kindly promised that the children could resume their lessons with him.

Ashara wrote to Alerie that they accepted, and that she would be delighted to see her again. She sent the notices out and went to kiss her children good night.

"When will we leave for the Reach?" Alys asked, clutching her red stuffed wolf which had been a gift from Ned for her second name day. Jon had one as well, though it was white.

Alys was positively ecstatic about the prospect of travel and seeing a new place. Ashara was, as well; after five long years in Starfall, she had been waiting for a chance to leave. To visit those who had survived the war.

"In a few days," she told her daughter. "Plans must be made and horses must be readied, and we will need to buy a gift for the Tyrell children, won't we? No guest should show up empty-handed — especially not to that of a lord's place."

Alys nodded. "Do you think Lady Margaery will like me? Even though I'm a bastard?"

"Never call yourself that," Ashara ordered, none too sharply. Alys winced. Ashara softened immediately. She took Alys's hand and squeezed it. "In Dorne bastards are not looked down upon, but in the rest of the world? Some might see you as below them. But the Tyrells are accommodating, I promise."

"What does that mean? Acc-accama..." She struggled with the word and scowled.

" _Accommodating_ ," Ashara corrected gently. "It means... They will accept you easier. And as the daughter of a noble lord and lady? No one would ever dare insult you."

Alys nodded, appeased. She kissed the soft nose of her wolf and then Ashara's cheek. "G'night, Mummy."

"Good night, sweet child."

Ashara blew out the candle on her beside and walked to the other side of the room, where Jon slept. He had been waiting, staring up at the high ceiling. Ashara smiled and looked up. There were stars painted there — so many. They looked so real she could almost believe there was no ceiling at all.

"Are you excited?"

Jon nodded eagerly. He scooted down in his blankets so that she might sit beside him. "I've never met anyone our age," he whispered.

"It will be good for you both to have friends," she promised him, smoothing back his curls. It occurred to her, in that moment, that the Tyrells had been fiercely loyal to Rhaegar Targaryen. Even if the truth of his parentage somehow slipped out while in the Reach, they would not betray him.

But Jon was her son. Blood of the dragon or not.

"Good night," she said, kissing his nose.

* * *

Aron was standing outside the door to her chambers.

"Brother," she said, a little startled. "What is it?"

"I fear the Tyrells might have other ambitions in this visit," he told her, in an odd rush. "Allyria is of an age with their oldest boy, Willas. Could it be marriage that they seek? Betrothal?"

"I doubt they would sell off their oldest son for a Dornishwoman," she told him, letting him enter her chambers and pouring them both a goblet of wine. "Probably they are waiting for the Queen to birth a daughter."

"Mm, that may be so," Aron nodded, "But a Princess who is near seven — or however long it takes Cersei to birth a girl — years younger? It would be an improper match. You know how ambitious the Tyrells can be, sister."

"So what?" Ashara turned. "You wish for Allyria to remain in Starfall?"

"If she did—"

"No, brother," Ashara sighed. "On this I must refuse you, I fear; Allyria has only ever been to Sunspear, and that was ages ago. She must see the world. And what is the harm in a betrothal between her and Willas, anyway?"

Aron anxiously eyed the door. "I... Have proposed an alliance between Houses Dayne and Dondarrion."

"Oh, brother, you didn't!" She set down her wine in a fury and crossed the room, grabbing his warm, pale hands in her own. "Tell me you did not!"

"Nothing has been decided as of yet," Aron assured her, hurriedly. "But I fear that if I do not give an answer in these next years I might make an enemy."

"You will not," she said firmly. "Leave this matter to me; the marriage of our sister. Tell the Dondarrions that I have ceased any planning on your part and insist that I handle Allyria. They will understand; it is the truth, after all."

Aron rubbed his temples. "Very well, sister," he said. "Do not come back empty-handed."

* * *

It was on the morning they departed that Ashara finally received her reply from Lord Stark.

He was most gracious in his acceptance, and asked that she inform him when they returned to Starfall so that he might finally re-aquatint himself with the twins. Ashara formed no reply to his words, and resumed her final stages of packing.

Jon and Alys were mounted on their ponies when she reached the courtyard. Ashara insisted they ride there, at least part of the way; she would not have her little children ride in a wheelhouse when they were more than capable of handling their horses.

Ashara made certain that they had everything they needed for the trip. Alys was glowing as Ashara rummaged through her saddlebag. She slipped in a few more apples and a sack of oats for the pony in case it grew tired and smiled at her daughter. She looked wonderful; her dark hair had been fixed in a lazy northern style for the journey there, and she wore a breezy Dornish dress to help with the heat.

Jon urged his pony to stand next to Alys as though there were going to race. Ashara climbed atop her own horse, a filly called Quicksilver, and joined them. "Try not to fall off," she warned them. "And be safe on those. Stay close to me and Allyria, do you understand?"

They nodded. The portcullis rose slowly and gratingly, but soon enough they were on their way.

* * *

 **AN: Here we have another chapter! Not all of them will be as choppy, but this story needs to progress. Was it choppy? Give me your opinions on this. Remember that every character is different, and they have different ways of thinking and doing things. Obviously the vibe of this chapter is going to be different from the Ned one.**

 **Okay, so, a guest reviewer commented that it would be dishonorable of Ned either way (as in, being with Ashara or Cat), because Ned was betrothed to Ashara but he married Cat, and he married Cat, but he's smooching with Ashara. This, while quite accurate, isn't necessarily the case. Ned and Ashara were not, in fact, betrothed. I mean, I know that they said they were, or it was implied... But it's just one of those things that was said, or promised, after they'd done the deed and little Alys was sprouting up. It's a midnight vow that holds no weight.**

 **Ned married Cat on the orders of her father (kind of), but he loved Ashara. It wasn't dishonorable to marry Cat, because there was no official betrothal. What WAS dishonorable was Ned taking Ashara's "maidenhead," as it were, when they weren't married. He "dishonored" her. But yes, I totally see what you're saying and sort of agree, but it's all really very technical.**

 **Sorry for the overly long note!**


	3. Catelyn I

THREE : CATELYN (I)

It had been four years since Ned had returned from war; from the south.

In that time she had given him both a son and a daughter, both healthy and wonderful children who took after Cat with their Tully hair and eyes. Sansa was a beauty already; her undeniable high cheekbones though she was still but a baby, pink lips, and pale skin. She would make a fine bride someday.

Robb was her in looks and Ned in spirit. She adored her son, her first baby. She loved her children in different ways, but just as much as the other.

Now she was with child once more. In the early stages, to be true, but she could tell already that life was blooming within her. After two babes, a woman knew.

She kept the news close to her chest until it was safe; the revelation of Lysa's latest miscarriage haunted her — fear nagged at the back of her mind that she might lose this one as her sister had lost so many. But the Gods had grated her uneventful pregnancies before. Surely they would do so again?

But not so. Of course, nothing was the matter with the child itself, but the world around Catelyn that only made her fear grow. Tensions were rising in concern with the Ironborn, which might mean her husband riding off to war once more. Not only that, but he had sent out a message to Ashara Dayne requesting time with his two bastard children.

It had hurt Cat deeply when he had told her about the siring of the two children. The pain lessened when he informed her that they were twins, and that he had only been with the woman the one time — before they were married.

He had not betrayed her, no. Nor had he disgraced her by bringing the bastards here in the north or naming them Starks to rip the claim right from Robb's little fingers. Ned had left them in the south, in Starfall, with his whore of a woman.

And now he wanted to visit them.

Oh, how he had begged her not to be angry! How he had pleaded with her; _they are my children, Cat. I must see them. They must know me for their Father._

She might have allowed him to go if not for the babe in her belly.

It stung — the thought that he might love his natural children more than his true born ones. It was only a worry, but it was justified in the way that he spoke of this Alysanne and this Jon, and of how his eyes lit up and a smile curved at his lips when they were mentioned — accidentally or not.

Had he ever looked at Sansa or Robb that way? Had he ever spoke their names with such a plain love?

Had he ever said _Catelyn_ the way he whispered _Ashara_ in his sleep?

None of it was meant to hurt her, she knew. None of it was meant to sting or scrape or bend or break. Ned loved her and he loved their children, and he was sweet to all of them. She was growing anxious over nothing.

But here was a missive from Lady Dayne, opened and spread across Ned's desk. It read that Lady Dayne was visiting Highgarden with her two children, and begged him not to come.

Catelyn felt relief. And also, maybe, just the slightest bit of forgiveness toward this woman whom had done her no ill. She knew that much of what she felt toward Ashara Dayne was unjust and unladylike, but she felt it all the same.

Ned was off performing the execution of a Night's Watch deserter. He would not return until noon, she guessed. Catelyn ducked out of his solar and walked down the halls to Sansa's nursery.

Her daughter, not yet a year old, was playing patiently with a little stuffed fish. She believed it had been her Father to send the gift when news of Sansa's birth had spread over the realm. She smiled at the sight and kissed her daughter atop her head.

Robb was on the floor, having his wooden knights fight. "What are you doing in here?" She asked of him.

Robb shrugged. "M'bored," he said. "And anyway, everywhere else is no fun. There's no one to play with."

It was true, for the most part. She wondered if, had Ned brought his bastards north with him after the war, they and Robb would have been friends. Most likely, she affirmed bitterly. And it was her fault that they were not.

Cat knelt down by her son and picked up a knight. Its wood was painted white and purple. The colours of House Dayne. She clutched it so tightly her knuckles went white. "Where did you get this?" She demanded, voice trembling.

"I dunno," Robb shrugged again and went back to his toys.

Catelyn took the knight. Robb did not protest, but she doubt he had noticed at all, he had such a great many of them. She gave both of her children a quick kiss and swept out.

* * *

Long ago, years past, she had been betrothed to Brandon Stark.

Catelyn had loved him the instant she'd lain eyes upon him, all dark hair and grey eyes with that smirk and stocky build. He had held little affection for her, though, she knew. He was only doing his duty by his father.

Catelyn had thought that maybe they would come to love one another, and have beautiful children with her hair and his eyes — or the other way around. But it had not been so; Brandon had run south after his sister had been abducted, and as a result he had been murdered by the Mad King.

All of Cat's dreams had been crushed. Suddenly her father was angry and she was in mourning. Then Hoster Tully had decided that Cat would marry Eddard in place of Brandon, and she would remain as she was to be: Lady of Winterfell.

Catelyn had been excited at the prospect. Now, she only felt aged when she needn't be.

Absentmindedly she ran her hand over her stomach, which was yet to swell, and watched the little knight burn.

The door to her chambers swung open. There was Ned, looking grim and solemn as he stepped into their room. He wore his heavy fur cloak over his shoulders and his hair was tied back in that northern style he wore so oft.

"My love," she greeted, meaning it but feeling hollow. "Did it go well?"

"As well as it could have," Ned replied, stripping off his gloves. He came over to the hearth to warm his hands, not noticing the little knight burn. "And you, Cat? The children?"

"All three are well," she assured him, turning around to pour herself a goblet of water.

Ned grunted, and then there was a silence between them. "...Three?"

Cat could not stop the smile that spread across her face. She turned, skirts swaying, and beamed at her Lord Husband. "Three," she nodded. "The Maester confirmed it!"

Ned started to laugh. He pulled her into his arms and spun her around joyfully, and then kissed her, with a deeply rooted affection that warmed her heart and bones. "Oh, Cat," he whispered, cupping her cheek. "Another babe."

She nodded. "I'm about two months in," she said. "The Maester assured me that all looks well. He said I might as well tell you."

Ned nodded. "I am glad you did."

* * *

Four months came and went. Soon, Ned had left for war.

Cat had clutched her two children as they cried over the loss of their Father for only the Gods knew how long. Robb clung to her skirts while Sansa wailed into the crook of her neck. Cat shushed them, comfortingly.

That night Robb curled up next to her and fell asleep next to the swell of her belly. Cat lay with her hand on her stomach, staring upward and thinking of Ned's bastard Jon Sand, when the baby kicked. Cat sat upright, shocked, and kept her hand there as a volley of excited kicks impacted her abdomen.

She laughed and cried in the darkness, relieved and upset at once.

* * *

Cat held Sansa, rocking her back and forth in the rocking chair. Her daughter was nearing a year and a half, not quite there yet but coming round. Her skin was soft and white like porcelain, cool to the touch.

It was in that moment, when Cat was relaxed and at peace — forcing herself not to think of Ned or the war or Jon and Alysanne Sand — when the first pain came. She gasped, though it had more to do with shock than discomfort, and stood.

Gently she laid the baby down in her cot and walked, swiftly, to see the Maester. It was nighttime, he would be asleep. She pounded on his chamber doors but he did not answer. Another, more sharp pain caused her to cry out. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

She kept going, though, clutching her stomach and making her way though the keep. Luwin had to be around, somewhere. But what if he was out? There was a storm raging outside; rain pounding against the walls and windows and lighting cracking across the sky.

There came another contraction. Cat managed not to make any noise, for she had expected it and did not want to wake her children. They would only worry. Gods, where was Ned now? Was he in battle? Was he dead?

She had not heard from him in so long...

Slowly Cat lowered herself to the ground as more pain coursed through her. She was stood in a puddle of wetness. Her water had broke, most likely. Hissing, Cat pulled up her skirts and moved herself away, ashamed and alone.

"Luwin!" She called, as more pain came. Things should not be moving this fast; the other babes had taken hours to get the pain this close together. Why was it coming so quickly?

She was exasperated with this child already and it had not even been born, yet.

" _Luwin!_ " She screamed. Her entire body shook. She pulled herself up, clawing at the door handles for support. "Dammit, where are you?!"

She cared naught for manners at this time. Her child was coming — forcing it's way from her body as she walked. She had to get to a bed. Where was the Maester? Why had he not arrived, yet? Crying out once more and doubling over, Cat began to sob.

This was not how it was meant to be; _Ned should be here. Ned should be by my side as I bring this child into the world._

She hammered on his door again. It was clear now that Maester Luwin was not just sleeping but absent entirely. He had said nothing to her about going anyplace. Was that not something he should inform her of in her condition?

Cat grit her teeth as another contraction wreaked havoc on her body.

"By the Seven," she panted, climbing onto her bed. She affixed her legs and dragged up her wet skirts. "Mother have mercy..."

Another pain — this one so bad she screamed. When it passed she felt her muscles ache. "LUWIN!"

That was when he arrived, panting and carrying his leather bag of supplies. His grey hair was wet and plastered across his forehead. "I am so sorry, my lady," he said, appearing genuinely concerned and regretful. "I was with Jory — he has a fever, you see. Now, let us see the state of you..."

His eyes widened and fear coursed through her, and in that moment she could do little else but push without guidance. Luwin nodded, and minutes later the wails of a newborn babe had filled the room. He cleaned off the child and swaddled it, and then handed it to her.

"A girl, my lady," Luwin said, beaming with pride.

Catelyn looked down at this red-faced, screaming girl with dark hair and smiled. "Arya," she whispered. "My little Arya."

Luwin nodded. "A fine name, my lady."

Yes, it was. A perfect name.

* * *

Four months after she had been born, Catelyn took her daughter out for a walk along the battlements. It was not storming or even cold, but nonetheless the girl was well-wrapped and cooing as she looked out at all of these new sights with wide grey eyes.

Catelyn smiled, peaceful with her youngest child. She had worried that Sansa and Arya were too close together, that perhaps this would cause discontent or jealousy of some sort. So far, she had been proven wrong. Sansa delighted over the babe and Robb had wrinkled his nose when he saw her, claiming she was too ugly to be his sister.

Cat had admonished him thoroughly, and ever since he had doted on Arya.

She was a loud little girl already; screaming though the night and day, grabbing and punching, even kicking. Cat was glad of it; she would be a strong young thing.

It was then, as Cat stared over the battlements, that she saw the party of men approaching. They bore the Stark banner and held it with pride. There were about six of them, and at their head — she could see him even now — was Ned.

Quickly she rushed down the steps, damning propriety to all the seven hells, and ordered Luwin to fetch the children. Minutes later the old man returned with Robb and Sansa, and the drawbridge lowered to allow the party to pass through.

Most of the faces she knew, but there was only one that mattered. "Ned!" She cried.

He dismounted as quick as he could manage and landed with a thump in the middle of the muddy courtyard. His face had been grim as he approached, but when he saw her it lit up into the broadest of smiles.

He rushed to her as fast as he could without running. Quickly Cat managed to hand the baby off to Robb, who held her expertly having done so dozens of times, and jumped into her Lord husband's awaiting arms.

"Oh, Cat," he whispered, warm and here and alive. "I have missed you greatly."

"And I, you," she told him, holding onto him as tight as she could manage. "Oh, where have you been?"

They kissed, and she felt safe. Ned was then tackled as Sansa came at him, giggling and screaming with delight, auburn curls bouncing. Ned caught her with ease and laughed as she peppered his face with kisses. "Hello, little one."

"Father!" Robb was tired of holding Arya, she knew. In a rush Cat took the baby and Robb pounced, distracting Ned. Soon his arms were full. Robb curled up, a ball of fur and leathers, and buried his face in the crook of Ned's neck.

Cat beamed at the sight. Ned gave them both another kiss and hug and set them down. He approached her in a more hesitant manner this time, and bent over to see the baby. "Her name is Arya," Cat told him.

"She looks..." Ned's breath caught. She could see the tears in his eyes. "She looks like Lyanna."

Cat offered for him to hold her and he gladly accepted, staring down at Arya with something akin to wonder. "My sweet girl," he whispered, so that only the three of them could hear. "You will be a wolf of winter."

* * *

He introduced her to the Greyjoy lad later that night.

Cat bore the boy no ill will, but still she was uneasy around him; that smirk and those eyes — always darting around and looking down — made her a bit sick. She avoided him for the most part, though she was plenty kind and hospitable toward Theon Greyjoy.

There was no feast. Ned did not care for such festivities. She suspected he wanted to merely slip back into Winterfell like a thief in the night, to return to how it had been before he had gone off to fight Balon Greyjoy.

He held her tenderly after they had finished. "I missed you greatly, Cat," he told her, smiling and brushing her red hair from her shoulders.

"Ned," she whispered, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Just saying his name, knowing that she was talking to him, that she was held in his strong arms, was enough to make her cry. "Gods, I have longed for you to return. Every day and every night."

Ned sighed. "I wish you had had no reason to," he told her sadly. "I wish that I had not left you."

Cat kissed him softly on his jawline. "You did your duty," she said firmly. "As Robert's friend and as Warden of the North. You were needed elsewhere, but that does not make you any less of a father or husband."

 _Your bastards do_ , she thought suddenly, but she pushed the thought away in shame and anger.

Ned nodded, and she saw that his face had gone pale. "Cat..." He bit into his lip and she knew, suddenly, what this was about. "They—"

"No!" She said sharply, extracting herself from his grip. "No. You cannot leave again!"

Ned rolled onto his back. "I will summon for them, then," he said.

"No!"

"Then you would have me ignore them entirely?!" Ned demanded, furious. Suddenly Cat was flushing. She drew the furs up to her chest in shame. "They are my children, Cat."

"You have three children and a wife here," Cat whispered, angrily. "A newborn daughter, Ned. Arya needs you! She cannot have you gone to see your southron whore and bastards!"

Ned's eyes widened, and she realised that she had stepped too far. Ned forcefully climbed out of bed, and pulled a robe around herself. "You have no right," he growled venomously. "They are my children. My blood. As much as Robb, Sansa, and Arya. They have done nothing to you — nothing to deserve this hate you so obviously harbour."

Cat curled up into herself. "You would leave us for them? After just coming back?"

"I would have you come with," Ned said sharply. "But I know that will never be."

"No, it will not," Cat glared at him. "I would not lay eyes upon your bastards, my lord."

Ned grit his teeth. "Do you have any idea what it is like for me to be separated from my children for so long? Last I saw them they were newborn babes — no older than Arya is now. They are nearing on five years old, Catelyn. It has been five years since I last laid eyes upon my babies. My son and daughter. Alys and Jon—"

"Do not speak their names!" Cat snapped.

"Alys and Jon!" Ned stomped his foot on the ground and glared at her with such a furious gaze it made her recoil. "Those are their names! The names of my children!"

"Arya, Robb, and Sansa!" Catelyn shot back, tears in her eyes once more.

Ned ran a hand through his hair. He looked a caged wolf, pacing furiously. "They are mine, too!" He hissed. "My children, Catelyn! And you have forbade me from seeing them. Not anymore, I fear. Either I will send for them, and you will endure, or I will go south with the children."

He was not thinking rationally; normally, he would refuse to take Robb anywhere if he was going as well. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._

"Calm yourself, Ned!" She warned, slipping closer. "Please!"

Ned rounded on her. "Calm myself?!" He demanded, red and distressed. "You have insulted my children! You have... You have..." He closed his eyes and sank to his knees. "You have been my wife. From the moment we said our vows to this moment now. And you are only doing your duty to protect your children."

Cat wiped her tears. She would not deny it. "What will be done?"

"I do not know."

* * *

 **AN: Chapter three, lads and ladies! Hope you enjoy! I actually REALLY enjoyed writing this chapter; it was so much fun to include Fetus!Arya. Review, please; they encourage me to write this story :)**


	4. Olenna I

FOUR : OLENNA (I)

It had been four years since the end of Robert's Rebellion. Each one seemed to add another wrinkle to Olenna's once beautiful face. Every day she found herself shrivelling up more and more like a bloody grape left out in the sun.

Now she had something else to focus on, besides her vanity; Margaery, who was already as beautiful as a rose — as beautiful as Olenna herself had been all those ages ago. She would train up this clever girl, she would point her in the right direction: away from foolishness.

Even if it meant she ended up an old shrew someday.

Currently her granddaughter was stood in front of her idiot son, Mace, with his wife Alerie and their other three children; Loras, Willas, and Garlan. The boys were all restless, shuffling and bouncing and giggling, like jumping beans.

Alerie encouraged them to stay still, gentle but firm. Olenna had to say that, aside from being an occasional numbskull, the woman had a way with the little ones that even she herself admired. Immediately they quieted and her good-daughter smiled.

Through the front gates of Highgarden, up the grassy path, came a wheelhouse and several mounts. They paused in the centre of the castle, horse hooves echoing on the cobblestone ground. Atop a white horse was one of the most charming women Olenna had seen in a great many days; with black curled tresses and purple eyes.

Ashara Dayne.

Originally she had thought her son an imbecile to invite this disgraced woman and her bastards to Highgarden itself, with a foolhardy plan to marry off one of his children to her own, but now Olenna saw that her beauty almost made up for it.

If the children were comely as well...

Ashara Dayne slipped off her horse and landed with grace, beaming at the sights around the lot of them and peeling off her gloves. "Lord Tyrell!" She called, seemingly delighted. An ignorant man would be convinced, but Olenna saw that she was slightly uneasy.

Mace approached her and bowed his fattening body to kiss her hand. "My Lady Dayne," he returned in kind. "It is a pleasure to have you within the four walls of our home."

 _There are more than four, you dunderhead,_ Olenna thought wryly. She kept her smile affixed upon her face, however.

Alerie went to them, skirts sweeping and braided hair swishing. "Ashara!" She exclaimed. Olenna knew that her happiness upon seeing this woman was true. "Oh, how wonderful it is to be in your company once more!"

"You are too kind," Ashara said. The two hugged and kissed as the wheelhouse was emptied. To Olenna's surprise, only two were inside it; a girl of about eight and her nursemaid. So where where the other children?

And then, as soon as her mind wondered, she was given an answer as a little girl and boy, who looked just alike, walked up to their mother. They had been riding?

"Lord and Lady Tyrell, may I introduce my children?" Ashara smiled politely at them and put one hand on each shoulder of the twins. Mace and Alerie nodded accordingly. "This is Alysanne, and her brother, Jon. And here is my sister Allyria."

The girl of eight smiled pleasantly and held out her hand to be kissed, hesitantly. Olenna knew that it wasn't the customary greeting in Dorne.

"It is a great honour," Mace simpered, the fool.

"And here are our own brood," Alerie announced. "Our oldest son, Willas — who is eight, bearing on nine — and then Garlan, who is seven, and Margaery, who is nearing on five, and Loras, who is in his last days of his second year."

Ashara nodded. "You all look so sweet and kind," she said to the lot, and they blushed. "Seven above, it is hard to believe Margaery and my two are of the same age!"

There was a slight accusation in that tone, Olenna noted with a dry smile. This woman was no idiot; good genetics on her part, then. A fine match for any of Olenna's grandchildren, if they were not baseborn. A shame.

"May I introduce to you my Mother, Olenna?" Mace gestured to where she had been standing behind them all.

Ashara smiled, but it was false. Oh, yes, she had taken a liking to Lady Dayne already. Olenna leaned forward and kissed both of her cheeks with an admonishing look to her son, who went a bit red but managed to cover it up with a smile.

"You must be exhausted," Alerie said. "We have chambers prepared for you, and assistance for anything should you need it."

Ashara nodded thankfully. "You are most kind, My Lady," she said, and then looked down at her twins. "It's past time the both of you had a proper bath."

They both made noises of protest and the boy — Jon — winced a little. Ashara ruffled his hair kindly.

"Would you mind terribly if Margaery and Loras joined them?" Alerie asked, smiling. "We could catch up while our children get to know one another?"

Ashara brightened. "Absolutely," she said. Her children sent her heated glares that Olenna appreciated.

* * *

Soon enough Olenna had been dragged along by Alerie to the guest chambers which had been set up for Lady Dayne and her children. She was to, apparently, watch over the children whilst Alerie and Ashara reacquainted themselves with one another.

 _Am I a grandmother or a nursemaid?_ Olenna wondered, as her good-daughter knocked on the door.

It swung open, at first Olenna thought on its own until they looked down. Alysanne Sand was staring up at them. "Ladies of Tyrell," she greeted, pushing the door open wider. She was a pretty little thing, Olenna thought; near on par with Margaery — though she could be biased.

Her grandchildren ran for the large bath that had been set up in the centre of the suite, surrounded by soaps and filled to the brim with pink suds that smelt of rose-water. Olenna seated herself on a comfortable chair as the four children stripped down — Jon Sand begrudgingly.

Margaery and Alysanne were soon plopping soap onto one another's hair, giggling at how ridiculous the other looked. Good friends already, Olenna observed.

Loras was fashioning himself a bright pink beard and the Sand boy was keeping to himself, playing with a wooden toy ship.

Ashara and Alerie poured themselves goblets of wine. Alerie passed one to Olenna, who politely refused. She planned on being perfectly sober by dinner. She listened in on the conversation between the two chatting ladies.

"Gods, it's been ages," Alerie said.

Ashara nodded. "I have missed you," she said. "It seems only yesterday we were in court together."

Alerie smiled. "Do you remember the day Cersei Baratheon choked on her pigeon pie? I thought you would never stop laughing!"

She laughed now, purple eyes brightening in a way Olenna had seen on many a Targaryen faces. Alysanne squealed suddenly, and every gaze was drawn to her. Margaery and she were sopping wet, covered in bubbles, and Olenna's granddaughter was giggling madly.

Ashara turned to Alerie. She looked sharp, suddenly. "Why have you summoned us here, My Lady? Aside from the obvious reasons?" She raised a brow. "What of the less obvious ones?"

"I suppose it is only fair you are warned," Alerie said quietly, leaning in slightly. "Mace intends to propose a marriage between a Dayne and a Tyrell."

"Oh?" Ashara blinked, though Olenna could tell that she was unsurprised. This woman had enough cunning to know why Mace had summoned her here. "My children are not legitimate, though."

"Oh, my sweet girl, do not be a fool," Olenna said suddenly, playing along, though she kept her voice low. "You know very well my son would have your children legitimised by Royal decree before anyone married."

Ashara pursed her lips. "Perhaps," she said, sipping her wine. "But not with the Stark name."

Olenna had almost forgotten that the two children sat before her in this claw-foot tub were the offspring of Lord Eddard Stark. Yes, of course, Mace would do something like this; an alliance with Dornish houses and, by default, the north itself. A powerful move. A difficult one.

"They could always take your name," Alerie reminded her, smiling. "The Dayne twins."

Ashara grinned a bit and leaned forward to scrub her daughter's hair. Margaery scrubbed Loras' and Alerie did Jon's for him. The boy scowled through the whole affair, but when Margaery blew a bubble in his direction his eyes lit up.

This was going to be very interesting.

* * *

There was no grand feast to welcome the Daynes, but a small gathering consisting of the Sand twins, their mother and aunt, and Olenna's son, good-daughter, and grandchildren. Conveniently and rather obviously Allyria and Willas had been placed together, though despite potential alliances Olenna thought that over the past few hours they had become quickly linked.

Jon and Garlan sat together by Loras, though Margaery separated Jon from his sister. Garlan was raving on about his horse and other such nonsense, but Jon Sand lapped it all up eagerly, and even grinned once or twice.

Margaery and Alysanne were already good friends. They spent the dinner talking and laughing over shared jokes and stories. Alysanne looked every bit a young beauty with her hair tied back in a style that matched Olenna's granddaughter perfectly.

Olenna helped herself to the food; roasted duck, cheesed potatoes, string beans, apples, grapes, and oranges, and baked bread with honeyed butter. She had no reason to hold back and merely observed the children and adults as they spoke.

When the candles around the table began to dim, Alerie suggested that the children retire to bed — _so that the adults might speak._

Loras and Garlan and even Jon complained, but with a little influencing from Margaery and Willas they all left together.

"So," Mace began. _Eloquently_. "You must be curious, Lady Dayne..."

"I admit I was before," Lady Ashara swirled her Arbor gold and smiled into it's depths, "but some of my woes were smoothed over by your wife, my lord."

"And you know, then, that I intend to forge an alliance with the Daynes of Starfall?"

"Yes," Ashara confirmed, "one thing that irks me is, why? The Daynes are a noble House, it is true, but not a very prominent one. I assume, my lord, that you intend to forge an alliance with the House Stark along with House Dayne? I must inform you that your efforts will be for naught."

Mace raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yes," Ashara set down her wine with a bitter sigh. "Lord Stark has acknowledged my children, true, but he has not seen Jon or Alys since they were born. It has been four years since he was last in the south. They do not know his face or voice, and I am beginning to forget it myself." She paused with a purse of her red lips. "I believe it is Lady Catelyn's influence that is holding Ned back."

Mace nodded solemnly, but they all knew business was not finished. "He would not allow them to be legitimised?"

"Only, perhaps, under the name of Dayne. They will not be allowed to inherit anything of House Stark. I have come to accept this as fact."

Olenna popped her last bit of duck in her mouth and chewed. "Well, this is all very disappointing," she said, "but there is still the matter of Allyria and Willas?"

"Yes," Mace smiled. "Allyria is a legitimate Dayne. My son is a legitimate Tyrell. I propose a match between the two."

Ashara coughed. "My sister is a bit young for betrothal, don't you think?"

"On the contrary!" Mace smiled. "I have been getting marriage offers for my son since he was born. I wish to have the matter settled."

The Lady Dayne ducked her head. "Surely there are other houses? Better ones, for your son and heir?"

"Alas, I believe this would be better, my lady; my heir marrying your sister, who would live here in the Reach which is undeniably close to her home of Starfall. I plan to marry Margaery off to a higher house, such as Baratheon or Stark, and my son Garlan to either your daughter Alysanne or one of my bannermen."

"And Loras?" Ashara inquired.

"He wishes to be a knight," Alerie said with a fond smile. "Only two and his aspirations surpass that of his brother."

Ashara nodded. "It is a solid plan you have, my lord," she said. "But I am afraid I must take some time to consider. I would not so easily give away my daughter's hand, or that of my sister's."

Mace nodded, stroking his beard. "I did not expect anything else," he assured Lady Dayne. "You are welcome to stay in Highgarden however long it takes to come to a decision, my lady. You are wanted company, I assure you."

Lady Dayne nodded and removed her napkin from her lap. "I thank you, my lord," she bowed her head. "I will retire, now."

* * *

Olenna strolled through the gardens with Lady Ashara on her arm. The children were playing ahead of them; a game of maidens-and-monsters. They were coming upon the briar labyrinth, which Olenna figured would only delight the Sand children more.

Ashara was staring out at the orchards, from which all sorts of fruits grew. "Do you agree with your son's planning, Lady Olenna?"

"Parts of it," Olenna admitted, a bit startled at the woman's bluntness. She recovered swiftly, however. "Others... My son has a tendency to make rash decisions, Lady Dayne. Do forgive me, but a match between a bastard and a highborn? Audacious."

Ashara stiffened, as Olenna thought she would. "Hmm," she looked away, gaze drifting to her children. "And yet, they have noble blood; the blood of Houses Stark and Dayne, and Targaryen."

Olenna nearly faltered at the subtle reminder that Ashara was of Targaryen descent, and thereby her children were, as well. "Yes," she said, coming to a halt at a table and seating herself. She leaned back in the cool shade. "It is a shame they were born with the surname Sand."

"Would you permit me to speak freely, my lady?" Ashara's eyes were bright.

Olenna cleared her throat, and then nodded, rubbing at the bit of soft skin beneath her chin. "I would, my lady."

Ashara hummed. "This is all hypothetical, of course," she assured Olenna, who was not appeased, but remained silent. "If your house was in such a precarious position, for example... A war... Who would you side with, my lady? The Lannisters, who scheme and lie? The Starks, who are honourable no doubt but blind? Or would you declare yourselves independent?" She let the question hang for Olenna to consider, which she had to admit she had not.

Ashara shifted and went on, "None of this, of course, would be the advisable approach. No... The best action would be to remain neutral in time of warfare, until a more rightful heir to the Throne came along."

"Do you refer to Viserys Targaryen?" Olenna leaned forward, startled.

"Oh, no," Ashara smiled dazzlingly and ran a hand along the moist iron table. Her fingers came up wet. "I refer to someone else. An unknown. Hidden away, safe and sound."

Olenna was silent for a moment. Within, the gears were madly turning; pieces began to connect until finally, at last, she sat up straight with her eyes wide and whispered, "Seven hells..."

"Do not jump to conclusions, my Lady Olenna," she said hastily. "Remember, this is all hypothetical. I am only trying to sort out your true loyalties."

"My dear girl..." Olenna blinked. "The loyalties of House Tyrell have always been with those who conquer. Those who raze the world through the means of fire and blood."

Ashara's smile was like a knife in the afternoon sun. Perhaps, Olenna thought wryly, _I underestimated this woman._

"This all must stay between us, My Lady," Ashara rose with the practised grace of a highborn woman and looked after her children. "I thank you for your time."

* * *

 **AN: Here's 4! It was such a pleasure to write Olenna, I absolutely adore it. I'm many chapters ahead, at the moment.**

 **Also, about the ages: I am aware that Loras is meant to be older than Margaery, but for the purposes of this story, I had to change that. I've warned in the past that I'm tweaking with the timeline. This is an example of that, but I _promise_ this change isn't drastic and won't really effect anything. **

**Please review; they give me so much inspiration!**

 **Much love! xx**


	5. Ashara II

FIVE : ASHARA (II)

She lay between her two children, stroking their curls back, lost in thought.

If she accepted the offer from Mace — which, she supposed, as also an offer of peace between Houses Tyrell and Dayne, as well as the Reach and Dorne; she was deciding the fate of not only two people but two kingdoms — Allyria would no doubt wish to get to know her future home. Which meant that she would be staying here, in Highgarden, away from Ashara and the children — and who knew how long that would go on for? Who knew when Allyria would return? It pained Ashara to even consider it, but she had told Aron she would be the one deciding who Allyria married. And it was, without a doubt, a wonderful match.

Aside from that, there was of course Lady Olenna, who clearly remained loyal to the Targaryen dynasty. Ashara, of course, had not specified which twin was of the blood of the dragon nor whether or not it was even true, but it was incredibly important to establish certain alliances; especially with those who might one day be family.

With the knowledge of Olenna's loyalties and by extension those of Mace Tyrell, and the friendship she bore with Alerie, she was certain that her sister would be in caring hands. And yet, she was still hesitant; Allyria was only eight years old, as was Willas. Could they not wait?

And _yet..._

"Mother?" Alys was laying on her side, curled up on a mound of pillows and silky blankets. Ashara turned to look at her, careful not to jolt a fast-asleep Jon. "Will I marry Garlan?"

Ashara smiled. It was just like her daughter to worry. "I think not, my sweet," she said softly. "You are too young to think of such things, anyway."

"Margaery said I might be her handmaiden," Alys went on, shifting. "She said that, that way I could get to know her brother and one day I might come to love him. Do you think she was right? Will I be her handmaiden, Mother?"

This was all news to Ashara, of course. She frowned deeply. "Nothing has been settled," she said, "but you are so little, now. Being a handmaiden would not happen for some years."

 _Or ever, if I have any say_ , Ashara thought darkly. She kissed her daughter on the brow. "Sleep, Alysanne."

* * *

Morning dawned bright and early. Light crept in through the many windows and seemed to pour across the wooden floor. Ashara woke with her two children splayed across the large bed. Jon's head was buried under the pillows, and Alysanne — for whatever reason — was clutching his foot.

Ashara rubbed the sleep from her eyes and roused them. Jon begged for another five minutes, but Alyanne shot awake and begged to see her new friends as soon as she was presentable.

Ashara set to work with her children; washing them, combing their hair, helping them dress. Alysanne slipped on a blue, green, and purple gown that Alerie had ordered the seamstress to make. It was of the finest material, and lined with silver thread.

Jon rolled his eyes as his sister twirled around the room. Ashara straightened his head so that he was looking straight at the vanity as she removed the tangles from his hair. "You are a stubborn little boy," she told him as he winced.

"It hurts," he complained.

"There is nothing he loves more than his hair, Mother," Alysanne giggled.

Jon scowled at her. "Shut up, Sanni," he grumbled, and moped through the rest of the process with his arms folded over his chest. Ashara couldn't help the smile that broke her face. That only made Jon more upset.

Ashara led them down the halls of Highgarden. Alysanne skipped the whole way, while Jon walked beside Ashara. They looked out at the expansive fields of golden roses, and then the orchards of peaches, apples, and apricots — depending upon which side of the castle they were.

Margaery met them in the middle of a marble colonnade, chasing her little brother Loras around the fat columns. She squealed when she saw Ashara's children and embraced them both. Jon blushed, but Ashara suspected it had more to do with a girl hugging him than being smitten with her.

"They're adorable, don't you think?" Alerie slid up next to her in a gown of grey and red that complimented both her house and silver hair.

"They are," Ashara took the hand of her friend and they circled the playing children. "I have considered Mace's proposal..."

"And?" Alerie sent her a coy look.

"I will accept," Ashara told her. "On the condition that Allyria remains in Starfall until she is flowered. Once she is a woman grown, they will marry, and not before."

"Reasonable terms," Alerie nodded seriously, though her eyes were dancing with contained joy. "I wish the very same for my own daughter." They stopped at the head of the colonnade. Alerie plucked an orange and pink rose off of the nearest column and handed it to Ashara, who inhaled the perfume gladly.

Willas and Allyria were walking around a trickling fountain, pointing at the tadpoles in the water. Allyria laughed when a frog broke the surface. Her arm was looped around Willas's. Already they were acquainted.

"I will bring Mace the news before dinner," Alerie told her. "How long will you stay?"

Ashara tilted her head to the side. "Perhaps a few weeks? I want all of the children to enjoy themselves before we go."

They stayed at Highgarden for another fortnight, and then visited Cider Hall for another week. By the end of their stay at the Reach, Margaery and Alysanne were the best of friends, Jon had opened up to Garlan, Loras, and Willas, and Allyria was adoring of the oldest Tyrell boy.

None of them wanted to part. The night before leaving Nightsong, to which the Tyrells had travelled with the Dayne party, Margaery proclaimed that all of the children would sleep in the same bed. Indeed they did, clinging to each other the whole night through; telling stories and singing songs.

Ashara had settled the terms with Mace, who gladly accepted them and announced to his entire hall that Willas and Allyria were henceforth betrothed. The two seemed happy with the arrangements. Ashara wondered if it would last.

In the morning both Alys and Margaery cried at having to leave one another. Ashara promised the Tyrell children that they were more than welcome to stay in Starfall should they wish it. Both of the girls brightened at that.

Ashara bid Alerie, Olenna, and Mace goodbye. Then she mounted her horse, as did her sister and children, and they departed Nightsong.

* * *

It took two weeks to reach home. At the sight of it, Jon and Alys cried out with joy and pushed their horses forward. Ashara followed, just as eager. She had missed her brother. She had missed her bed, her view, her home.

Aron greeted them in the courtyard. He picked up the children and spun them around, to their great delight. Then he embraced Allyria. "Congratulations are in order, if I have heard correctly?" He set their sister down.

"I have a husband-to-be," Allyria confirmed.

Aron turned his attentions to Ashara. He kissed her cheeks. "It is wonderful to have you all back," he told them. "These halls have been so quiet."

Ashara smiled. "I expect you have been lonely," she said. "No more of that, I promise you."

Aron draped an arm through her own and led her and the children back to the Great Keep. "What were the terms for the marriage?" He asked in a low voice.

"Allyria will stay in the Reach once she is flowered," Ashara replied. "And then, I expect about two years after that, they will marry in the Sept of Highgarden — or perhaps the Starry Sept; it has not yet been decided."

Her brother nodded. "Very well," he said. "My sister, you have been gone for two months, and in that time, my wife has returned from the Water Gardens with my son."

 _Oh, Seven Hells..._ Melina Dayne, her good-sister, was a pain in the backside, that was plain enough for all to see. The woman had stayed here for a year while pregnant with her son, and the entire time she had shamed Ashara for bearing bastards and staining the legacy of House Dayne. Ashara had no wish to be in the company of Melina again. She hoped, though, that her son Edric was not as horrid as she. "The boy is nearing on three, is he not?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "A bright spirit, I assure you." He sent a pointed look in Ashara's direction.

Ashara nodded as they walked, ascending the tile staircase to the bed chambers. The children quietly walked behind them, looking a little solemn. Aron followed her gaze and frowned. From his pocket he pulled two candied plums. Their little faces lit up and they sucked them eagerly.

"You are too indulgent," Ashara laughed. "You will spoil your own son!"

Edric Dayne lay in a plain wooden cot. Apparently, Melina would not allow any carvings for she worried the babe might cut himself. Ashara found that ridiculous.

Edric was a pale little thing, with light sandy hair and, when he woke, she saw that his eyes were a deep blue — almost purple. She smiled and knelt before him. "A true heir," she said fondly, poking his nose lightly.

The little boy laughed and looked to his Father, who picked him up without a moment of hesitation.

Jon and Alys stared at Edric. "He looks funny," Alys claimed.

Jon jerked his head solemnly as though this was the wisest thing he had ever heard. "His cheeks are fat."

"Be kind," Ashara chastised. "Edric is your cousin, your family. And all babies have a bit of fat on their faces, Jon."

The children rolled their eyes and ran off, bored with the spectacle already. She heard their voices echoing off the walls. They spoke of their Tyrell friends and the journey there and back, and Alysanne boasted of all her new dresses.

Ashara eyed her brother as he bounced his son. "How have you been, brother?"

"Well," he said, looking up. "I assume all was pleasant with the Tyrell family?"

"Oh yes," Ashara seated herself on a wooden chair by the window and looked out at the rushing, sparkling rivers and a group of little girls playing beside it. "The Tyrells were very hospitable. Jon and Alys have made friends for life, I think."

Aron nodded. "That is good," he said, setting his son down to play with his toys.

"Yes," Ashara watched her nephew, smiling, but it melted when through the door stepped Melina. The woman was taller than Ashara remembered, wearing all black though she was not in mourning. Her hair was braided in a rather unflattering fashion, and her plain face was scowling.

How Aron managed to keep his spirits up, Ashara did not know.

"Ashara," she said stiffly, by way of greeting. "I passed your bastards on my way here. They were being rowdy, as usual. It seems to me that you failed to tame them in my absence."

 _Because this was my goal, good-sister._ Ashara could do little more than keep her face from glowering. "Yes," was all she said.

Aron looked between them. "Wife," he said suddenly, "would you not care for a walk along the riverside?"

Melina turned up her nose. "Nothing would please me more than to leave the presence of your disgraceful sister," she said, not even bothering to veil her slight. Ashara bristled, but she kept her composure; the bitch was only trying to rile her. She would not give her the satisfaction of stooping to her lowly level.

Aron and Melina left. Ashara ruffled Edric's hair and summoned his nursemaid, Wylla, who had been his wet nurse previously.

* * *

 _3 years later — Starfall_

He came during a storm, wrapped in leather armour with that solemn look she had so quickly forgotten.

Ashara did not bother to greet him upon his arrival, for she knew not that he was even on his way, but instead sat in the library with her two children, who were now seven years of age and growing taller with every day that passed. She studied them, drinking in their appearance with reverence and deeply buried fear.

Alysanne was lanky, but beautiful, with Ashara's hair and a mixture of both her and Ned's eyes. She was always smiling, and had proved to be very bookish of late. Jon was the same, but on a rather more subdued level. He was fascinated by dragon-lore, an expansive subject in the Dayne library, and currently was pouring over a tome now.

Alys' quill was scratching against her parchment. A letter to Margaery, Ashara knew. They had been writing since they knew how.

How she had been blessed with these sweet children, she knew not. They were her light.

The door opened and Maester Justyn slipped in, followed, slowly, by none other than Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.

He was older than she remembered him to be; his brown beard was peppered with bits of grey and his hair, the same, was wet from the rain. Her sweet Ned, so good and kind and brave, who had slain her brother and left her here with Jon and Alys to raise alone, without a Father.

She did not know what he was thinking, but she knew that she was terrified; what if he took them from her? What if he ripped them from her arms? Her little babies...

Quickly she wiped her tears and stood, setting aside her needlework in haste. The twins looked up from their respective works. They both frowned, for of course they did not recognise him. Ashara felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her.

"Ned..." She whispered.

He smiled, but it was strained and forced. He looked so worn and weary, and yet, so was she. Many years had passed, and with them had come things such as bitterness and resentment. Ashara blinked and composed herself. "Children," she said, "this is Lord Stark. Your father."

Their eyes widened, and they scrambled to their feet. Ashara saw that Ned already adored them absolutely, despite only having been in their company for less than a moment. "Maester Justyn," she said, "you may leave. I thank you."

Justyn smiled and nodded, shuffling out. He was ageing, but still quick enough.

Then they were alone; the four of them. Jon took Alys' hand. "Lord Stark, may I introduce to you Jon and Alysanne Dayne?"

She took pride in speaking the name of her House in reference to her children. They had been legitimised only last year, but still the high from her victory had not worn off. Ned knelt before them so that they were of the same height and smiled. "It is a pleasure to meet the both of you," he told them. "You have grown so much since I last laid eyes on you."

They exchanged glances. "That's..." Jon trailed off lamely, forgetting his courtesies in his shock.

"To be expected," Alysanne breathed.

Ned laughed in that way that sent chills up and down her spine. "Yes, I suppose it is," he agreed. "Would you mind... Could I hug you?"

Immediately they both leapt into his arms. Ned let out a soft sigh, almost in relief, she thought. They stayed that way for at least a minute, and then Jon pulled away. "Why haven't you come before?"

"Jon, remember you are speaking to a lord," Ashara said.

Ned shook his head. "It's perfectly alright, Ashara," he said, smiling for real this time. His gaze turned to Jon, and with affection he pushed their son's tangled hair away from his eyes. "I would have come, but as a Lord I have duties to the north, and as a father I have other children—"

"Children more important than us?" Alysanne asked suddenly, backing away. Ashara put her hand on Alys's shoulder and urged her forward, toward Ned, instead. "M'sorry, my lord." She looked down at her feet.

"You needn't be sorry, Alys," Ned promised her. "I am your father. I should have done better by you. To tell it true, I would have come sooner. I planned to visit a couple of years ago, but I heard you went to visit Highgarden?"

"If we'd known you were coming—" Alys began, almost hysterical.

"None of that," Ned took her hand. "The Tyrells are surely better company than I. I am sure you enjoyed yourselves immensely."

Alys nodded eagerly. "Oh yes! Margaery and I are wonderful friends! I was just writing her a letter, actually..." She broke off, looking behind her at the unfinished missive, biting her lip.

"You can finish it, if you like," Ned told her.

"No," Alys slowly turned back around and beamed. "I'd rather spend time with you, I think."

Ned's smiled widened, if that was possible. Ashara, however, was not so easily appeased. "Ned," she said sharply, "a word outside, please?"

They slipped away from their children, closing the door to the library to be sure that they were not overheard. Ashara led Ned far enough away and then turned around to face him. "What are you doing here?"

She had meant to sound intimidating, furious... What came out was a weak and impatient pleading. Ned softened and moved his hand upward, as though to touch her cheek, but thought better of it. "I needed to see them."

"You sent no warning!" Ashara hissed, now frustrated at last. "I had no time to prepare myself or the children! Do you have any idea what this could do to them? To see their father for the first time in seven years only to have him ripped away again?!"

Ned looked down. He took her hand, and out of her own curiosity she did not draw away. He was cold as he always had been. Did she still love him, she wondered? Even after all of these years alone and without him?

"I... I am sorry, Ashara. I should not have come without warning... But I worried that you would not let me see them."

"You have had _seven years_ to see them!" Ashara ripped her hand out of his grip. "You have had all of this time! Why now, Ned? Why all of the sudden?!"

Ned sighed shakily. "I want to take them back north with me."

"No."

"Ashara—"

"No!" She stepped away. "No, Ned! They are my children! I raised them, I love them! You have only left them to long for you. I did everything, Ned, on my own, and now you will take them from me? You will have me lose them?"

Ned sighed. "You are welcome at Winterfell," he told her softly, but then his eyes hardened, "I will be taking them back with me — if only for a short time. I promise that, with or without you, they will return here to Starfall. I only wish for them to meet their brothers and sisters."

Ashara shook her head in disbelief. Her cheeks were wet. "You will take them, even if I do not want you to?"

Ned looked almost regretful. "I have to."

"You do not!" Ashara reached up and slapped him, clear across the cheek, for she was so angry that she could not stop herself. "You could stay here, but you choose to rob me of my son and daughter instead? You could get to know them in Starfall! You could have brought your children here with you!"

Ned touched his cheek lightly and then looked upwards, defeated. "My intention was to introduce them to the north; to show them the lands from which their father was born. I wanted them to know the rest of their heritage."

"Alysanne is leaving for Highgarden in a week," Ashara informed him wildly, silently thinking both the gods and Alerie for their perfect timing. "She is to become a handmaiden for Margaery."

"Then I will just take Jon."

"He is my—"

Ned leaned close enough to kiss her. "He is not," her former-love reminded her. "He is my sister's son; of no relation to you."

"I don't care," Ashara hissed. "I love him as my own. He loves Alys as his sister. Your words are wind, Lord Stark. You do not know them, nor do you know me. You have no right."

"I have claimed them as my children."

Ashara was breathing heavily. She rubbed her sore hand, mind racing, fear pumping through her veins. "Please, don't do this..."

"I must."

* * *

 **AN: And there, my lords and ladies, is chapter 5. I'm a bit insecure about it. Review, and tell me what you thought. I don't think there are any more mid-chapter time skips after this, but I could be wrong. Either way, I don't like them very much, but I wanted to leave the whole Reach visit a bit vague so that you could all form your own opinions on what the kids got up to.**

 **Much love! xx**


	6. Ned II

SIX : NED (II)

His daughter rode with them from Starfall to Grassy Vale, where a host of Tyrell men was awaiting her so that they could accompany her back to Highgarden. In that time, Ned attempted to know the enigma that was his daughter, but she remained elusive to him; avoiding him when she could and speaking in clipped tones. But sometimes, were he to say something that peaked her interest, she practically pounced on him in her excitement.

Jon and Alys embraced fiercely before she left, and to Ned's surprise she hugged and kissed him as well. He had to admit he was going to miss her greatly, and he was deeply upset that she was not able to join them.

Jon rode alongside Ned on a brown mare. He looked so much like Lyanna, and yet there were traces of the Dragon Prince in him as well; his lean form and his sharp features. He had grown into quite the young man, though Ned had seen him do naught but frown.

They barely spoke. Jon spent most days avoiding Ned's eyes. When Ned did attempt to make conversation, Jon would give short replies whilst fiddling with the reins of his horse. Ned knew that the boy was angry with him, but he had no idea what to say to change that.

At last the day came when Jon spoke first. They were approaching the Riverlands, and the weather was gradually growing cooler. The boy was wrapped in furs despite the lack of snow or wind, but having been raised in Dorne, Ned was not surprised.

"Why did you not allow my Mother to come with us?" Jon asked him, quite suddenly.

Ned's head swivelled around only to be met with a scowl. He raised a brow. "I did," he told Jon, "but she wished to stay in Starfall, as your uncle and aunt are currently at Sunspear."

"And did you come just because you knew they would be?" Jon asked. Gods, he was rather sharp. Ned pulled his destrier up, and Jon did the same, albeit startled. "So that my Mother had no choice but to stay?"

"Jon," Ned said firmly, "I have no wish to hurt you or your Mother, nor do I have any wish to cause discord among your family—"

"But you came without telling her," Jon retired hotly. "And we'd never even met you before." Jon shook his head, appearing utterly disgusted, and urged his horse to ride on. Ned quickly followed. The boy was silent for a while and so Ned allowed himself to gather his thoughts.

"You are my blood—"

"I am your _son_ ," Jon corrected quickly. "Alys is your daughter. And you left us in Dorne."

"Was your life unpleasant there?" Ned asked. "Was your Mother unkind?"

Jon glanced around wildly, cheeks pink. "No!"

"Exactly," Ned nodded. "I did it because it was what was best for you and your sister, Jon. Bastards are not looked down upon in Dorne. I knew that you would be treated with respect, not distain, as a Dayne."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Then why take me north where they say the word 'bastard' like it's as bad as 'Targaryen'?"

The breath left Ned's lungs. Did he know? Ned looked at him, studied him, but there was only challenge in those grey-purple eyes. "Because Winterfell is your home just as much as Starfall is—"

"No," Jon shook his head. "I was born in Starfall. I was raised in Starfall. My name is Jon Dayne, not Jon Stark or Jon Snow. I have no claim to Winterfell, I know no one in the north, and you... You left us." With that he spurred his horse into a gallop and left Ned behind.

* * *

Ned slept fitfully that night. He dreamt of the Tower of Joy, of Lyanna's death and Jon's birth. He dreamt of the war, of the battles he had fought, and long before that; the death of his mother, Lyarra. Rhaegar's murder on the shores of the Trident; rubies spilling across the dirt and greedy soldiers grabbing at them before they washed away...

He awoke with a start, covered in a thin layer of perspiration. Ned rolled out of bed and landed heavily in the grass. He crossed his tent and splashed his face with water from a shallow basin which rested on his trunk. He managed to calm his fast beating heart after a few moments.

"Why are you awake?" Asked a quiet voice.

Ned turned, startled, before he remembered that he shared at tent with Jon; he had wanted to keep a close eye on him; insure that he would not run away in the night. That had not appeared to be the case, thank the Gods.

Jon was propped up in his bed, a candle down to its last inches on his bedside table. He had a fat, large book open in his lap. Ned could not see what it was about. "I could ask you the same question."

Jon flushed. "I lost track of time," he confessed, sheepishly looking down at his book. "It's about the Targaryens; _The Dance of Dragons: A True Telling by Grand Maester Munkin._ "

Seven hells. This was all either a load of coincidences or his son was purposely antagonising him. He had little reason to suspect the latter, however; he was only being paranoid. Ridiculously paranoid. "A good read," he told Jon, drying his face with a towel. "Have you read it many times?"

"No," Jon said. "Only the once. But I read _The Habits of Dragon Breeding by Lothar Flowers_ twice, and _Balerion the Black Dread by Jeor Blackfyre_ at least a dozen."

Ned had never heard of either; he had never been interested in dragons or Targaryens as a child. "Impressive," he told his son, sitting on the edge of the bed. It creaked under his weight, and Jon scrambled back to make room. "What of your sister?"

Jon grinned. "Sanni — I mean, Alys — prefers riding and training in the yard to books," he said. "I do, too, but I've always liked dragons. I make time for them. Anyway, I'm better with a sword, but she's brilliant with a bow."

Ned was surprised. "I expect that the Tyrells will encourage her on the path of more ladylike persuits," he told his son.

"In Dorne ladies and lords train with weapons alike," Jon retorted. "My Aunt Allyria taught Alys herself. And Margaery already knows about Alys' training, anyway. She even asked if Alys could teach her."

He seemed quite satisfied with himself, if his grin was any tell. Ned tapped the edge of the book. "Do you want a dragon, Jon?"

His eyes lit up. In that moment, to Ned's great terror and amusement, they looked more purple than he had ever seen them. "I do," he confessed, and his face fell, "but they're all dead."

 _No. One sits before me now._ "I think you would look brave atop a dragon, Jon," he told him, smiling softly. "It is a shame they all died before you could ride one."

Jon nodded, solemnly. He chewed his lower lip, something Ned had seen Lyanna do a thousand times before, and brought him more pain now than it ever had in days past. "Do you think your son will like me? Or will he hate me because I am your bastard?"

"Never call yourself a bastard," Ned said sharply. "You are my son, Jon."

"But I am not Lady Stark's son," Jon retorted. "And I... I take no shame in being a bastard, Father. Mother said Alys and I were born of love. Why would I be ashamed of that?"

Ned sighed. This boy was going to ruin him. "It is true, what you say," he told Jon, "but in the North, 'bastard' is not a word of pride. People will spit it out like blood, Jon. You must promise me not to call yourself that ever again, mm?"

Jon nodded.

"Another thing," Ned cleared his throat, "you must not mention your sister, Alys. My Lady Wife... Is not fond of your existence. She has promised me that she will be civil — even kind — but I do not want... I cannot have her growing short with me if you talk about your past."

"So... I can't talk about myself at all? I can't tell my brothers and sisters about Alysanne?"

"You can," Ned nodded, "just not in front of Lady Stark, alright?"

Jon frowned. Nonetheless he jutted up his chin in a sharp nod. "Okay," he said, quietly. And then he looked down at his book. Ned watched a tear fall and wet the page. Quickly, startled, he reached out and pulled Jon into his lap. "I miss my sister..."

"I had a sister, you know," Ned told him, stroking back his son's hair as he cried. "Her name was Lyanna. I loved her more than I loved breathing."

Jon looked up, tearful. "What happened to her?"

 _She was your mother_ , Ned wanted to say. _She loved you. Gods, she loved you. She held you once, and I saw then that you were her whole world._ "She died in the war," he told Jon. "I miss her every day."

Jon sniffed. "Tell me something about her?"

Ned blinked. Only one thing had surfaced. "She loved blue winter roses."

At that, he smiled so wide and true it warmed Ned from skin to bone. "Alys is not dead," Jon murmured. His voice was gathered now, and firm. "She's in the Reach with our friends."

"Your friends..." Ned frowned. "Do you know the Tyrells well, then?"

"We visit twice a year," Jon's voice had taken on a warm and excited tone. "Alys and Margaery are best friends. She's nice to me, too, and Garlan's like my brother — he's older by three years, but that's fine. Loras is fun, too. And my Aunt Allyria is betrothed to Willas."

Ned had heard of the latter part. He worried, however, about his son and daughter in the company of the thorny roses of the south. Jon seemed to like them, though. At least there was that small comfort.

Jon squirmed in Ned's hold, and so he let him go. "I should sleep," he decided.

"I'm sorry for startling you, Jon," he said. On impulse he leaned forward and kissed his son's brow. Jon blushed and buried himself under the furs. Ned smiled. He marked Jon's spot in the book of dragons and stowed it away.

* * *

They arrived at Winterfell two weeks later.

Jon had gradually opened up more and more to Ned; every night they would talk over the crackling fire, of dragons and wolves and their pasts. Ned found that he had made the right choice in placing Jon with Ashara; his childhood had been happy and full of love. Jon spoke of his time in the Reach, to which Ned discovered his woes were for naught.

It seemed that Jon was absolutely smitten with Margaery Tyrell, though Ned highly doubted he knew it. It would have been an ideal match, in another life where Jon was Jaehaerys Targaryen. Margaery might have been his princess.

But now he was known publicly as a bastard. Ned's bastard son. It pained him to bear the knowledge that Jon would never be with this girl he adored. He said nothing to his son.

Alys, Jon said, was a better rider than he, and could shoot from horseback. Ned smiled at the image of his daughter firing off arrows at targets, hair tied back like that of a Dothraki boy.

Jon also spoke of Ashara. He confessed that he missed her greatly. Ned was immensely grateful to his former love; she had taken Jon in and loved him as her own. She had raised him to be good, honourable, and kind. She had never complained to him, only protected her children. He still loved her for that.

The first time Jon saw snow, they had just passed through the Neck. Jon was still reminiscing about how Meera Reed had thrown a spoon-full of pie at Jory's face when the first flake landed on his shoulder. Then another came, and another, and soon the air was brisk and the sky was grey, and Jon was slipping off his horse to catch some on his tongue.

Ned laughed at Jon's antics, thinking of both Robb and Lyanna. Jon asked him if he might send some snow back to Alysnne. He saddened considerably when Ned reminded him that the snow would melt before it even reached the Riverlands.

Now Jon was used to it, but still delighted with the frozen white flakes falling from the sky.

Winterfell was as Ned remembered it; stone walls, high towers, and Stark banners flapping in the wind. Jon gasped at the sight of it. Ned supposed he had never seen a castle quite like this — so dark and large, so very old.

"It looks like it's been here a thousand years," Jon proclaimed.

Ned smiled and pulled up next to him. "It has," he told his son. "And it is your home."

Jon swallowed. Then, with a sly grin, he kicked onward and rode straight to Winterfell. Ned, startled, managed to catch up on his rather large horse. They rode over the drawbridge together, and under the raised portcullis.

The courtyard was bustling as usual. Ned dismounted and handed his reins off to a stable boy. Jon did the same, although more reluctantly for the stable boy was Hodor. Ned assured him that his horse would be fine.

Out of the Great Keep came Ned's family; Cat, holding Bran who was nearing on a year old; Arya who ran straight into his arms with an excited squeal; Robb and Sansa who waited their turn and then embraced him just as fiercely. He kissed their heads and ruffled their hair — to Sansa's dismay.

"Cat," Ned kissed her cheek, feeling her smile, and stroked their youngest child's hair back. Bran was growing every day, he looked like Catelyn, as all of their children did aside from Arya.

"Is that him?" Cat whispered, eyeing Jon.

"Aye," Ned said.

Her eyes took on a steely glint, but she sent a forced smile in Jon's direction. It was all he had asked of her; courtesy. "Where is the girl?" She turned back to Ned. "His sister?"

"Alysanne is being fostered in the Reach as Lady Margaery Tyrell's handmaiden," Ned informed her. "Apparently, she and Alys are good friends."

Cat seemed a bit surprised at that, but she nodded. She handed Bran off to Ned and went to Robb. "This is your half-brother, Jon Dayne," she told their oldest son. "Introduce yourself."

"I'm Robb Stark," their son announced promptly, grinning with pride.

Jon raised an eyebrow at the hand extended to him. Ned recalled that customs were not the same on opposite ends of the realm. Nonetheless Jon shook Robb's hand. "Jon of House Dayne," he said with a smile.

Robb nodded. "These are my — I mean, our — sisters; Sansa and Arya."

Jon kissed Sansa's gracefully extended hand, seemingly bemused, and was about to do the same for Arya when she pounced on him, wrapping him in a hug that send them both toppling into the snow. Arya peppered his face with kisses.

Jon's eyes were wide, but to Ned's surprise he did not push Arya off. Instead he laughed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, little sister."

Arya grinned.

* * *

"He looks like you,"

Ned startled, and looked up from the many scrolls that littered his desk. They had piled up in his absence; some opened and read by Catelyn — those of which were the most urgent — and others awaiting his approval and guidance.

His lady wife was standing in the door way, dressed warmly in a satin blue gown trimmed with grey fur. She wore a cloak, for despite it being summer it was bitingly cold this far north. Ned welcomed the weather; the heat of the south had felt strangling.

"He does," Ned nodded, though inside he was screaming the opposite; the boy was Lyanna's son, not his own. "And yet he has Ashara's look, as well."

Catelyn slipped inside. She shut the door and sat opposite him. "Did she thank you for bringing him?"

"No," Ned read over a request for more grains from Lord Cerwyn, "she wanted him to stay in Starfall with her; she was already losing Alys."

"And why did Alys leave now?"

"Her aunt was departing for the Reach," Ned rolled up the missive and looked up at his lady wife. "Allyria Dayne is betrothed to Willas Tyrell, if you recall. She is now flowered, I believe, and is to be sent of to live with the Tyrells for a few years before she marries."

Catelyn pursed her lips. "It is odd for a girl to get her moon blood so young," she said softly. "And yet, Lysa got her own at ten. Sometimes it happens once and not again for a few years..."

Ned leaned back. He knew little about the ways of women, and so he stayed quiet as his wife pondered over the news. Catelyn eventually sighed and looked away from him, her gaze settling out the window to the white storm that approached. "Do you love her, still?"

"Perhaps a little," he confessed honestly, for he did not want to lie to her. "It is an old love, though, and not one I am eager to re-sow."

Catelyn shifted. "I was worried you would not return for some time," she confessed, "and that, when you did, you might carry a newborn babe in your arms." She let out a shaking breath. "It would appear this is not the case."

"I did not lie with her, Cat," Ned told her firmly. "I would never do such a thing to you."

"But you did," Catelyn protested. "You sired two bastard children—"

"Before I was married to you," he countered. "You were betrothed to Brandon. Brandon died, and it was then that I visited Ashara to tell her the news. She was stowed away in Silverhill, and that is when Alysanne and Jon came to be. It was two weeks later when your Father informed me I would be marrying you, Cat. I knew you not before then. I made no mistakes aside from dishonouring Ashara Dayne, who has never complained to me of what we did."

Cat smoothed her skirts. "I will not shame Jon for being alive," she said, "nor will I shame you, any longer. I... To tell it true I do not know why I have. If you had sired the twins after we were married, or even betrothed, I might have cause to be bitter. But there... There is no reason for my discontent. You have kept them away from me these past seven years, and you were so very courteous regarding them for my sakes. They are only children. The deserve to know their northern roots."

"And so you bear Jon no ill will?"

"No," Cat smiled thinly. He was not sure if she was being honest or merely telling him what she thought he wished to hear. "I am glad Robb has a companion, now."

Ned rose from his seat and looked out the window to where the children were playing in the yard. Ned recognised the game as come-into-my-castle, to which it seemed Jon was unfamiliar. Robb was gesturing madly with his hands, and Sansa was giggling. "They have got on rather well, have they not?"

"Indeed they have," Cat's eyes filled with love at the sight of their children. "It is a sight to behold."

"Yes," Ned smiled. "It is."

* * *

Ned stared at the stone effigy of his sister.

She was beautiful, even now with a face of stone. Ned knew that beneath it there were only her remains. Her hands were open to him, and though Ned had expected him to find them empty of anything, and yet there was a blue rose resting there.

He might have panicked, if not for the one in Brandon's grasp, as well as Rickard's, his father — and the secret he had divulged to his son comforted him. It seemed that Jon had already been by to honour those of which had fallen in Robert's Rebellion.

Ned reached up, hesitantly, and stroked her cold cheek. If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend she was real; Lyanna had always been one of frozen face. She had died in heat, however; in a stifling tower surrounded by lit candles and a smoking hearth.

She had been crying to him, whispering the name of her son and telling him how afraid she was, how she feared death, how she was not brave.

"You were always brave," he told her now. "Stronger than even I could ever have been."

* * *

 **AN: Sorry it's a bit late; I've been rather busy. But yes. Enjoy it, my lords and ladies! Review, please!**

 **Much love! xx**


	7. Alysanne I

SEVEN : ALYSANNE (I)

It had been near seven years since she had left Starfall for the Reach.

Since then she had only visited thrice. The Reach had become her true surroundings, Highgarden had become her home, in a way. Of course, Starfall was where her mother was, and she loved her mother dearly still.

But Jon was not there. His absence had made the whole place empty and vacant. She had felt so alone upon her last arrival, without her brother to greet her. Gods, she missed Jon. He was her other half; her best friend. And now he was stowed away in the North with their half-siblings, whom she had never met. Did he love them more than he loved her? Had he forgotten her?

The occasional letters she received from him only made her pain grow worse. She wanted more than anything to see him again.

But that was not an option. She knew it. And she had Margaery and Garlan — even Loras. It was not the same, of course. None of it was the same. But it was something.

Her bond with Margaery had always been special; Margaery had been there for most of her life. An occasional presence at first, and now she was there every day, a comforting and reliable sister to Alysanne.

Now, as she brushed Margaery's thick brown tresses softly, she could think only of the letter she had received from Starfall. Margaery must have noticed something was off, for suddenly she laughed. "You have ran the comb through that spot six times, Alys," she said fondly. "Why so distracted?"

"Forgive me, my lady," Alys tried for a smile, but it faltered. "I... Received a raven from home. It seems my mother has fallen ill."

Margaery's eyes widened. She turned around in an instant and clasped Alysanne's hands. The brush fell to the floor, forgotten. "Oh, not Ashara," she whispered. "It cannot be true, can it?"

"As much as I would like to say it is not," Alysanne sighed, "I am afraid that it was my uncle himself who wrote the letter. He says she has been bedridden for a week."

"She will get better," Margaery said firmly. "We will pray for her, I _promise_."

Alys nodded. She retrieved the brush from off the ground and rightened her best friend. She set to work once more, this time properly; her woes had been lessened by Margaery's strong beliefs. Her friend had always been faithful and true to her. She tied back Margaery's soft curls in the usual style.

"Do you like it, my lady?"

"Alys," Margaery chuckled, "how many times have I told you to call me by my name? For gods' sakes, we've _bathed together!_ If anyone has the right to call me Margaery, it is my best friend." She pulled her hair around her shoulders. "Do you think I look grand enough for Renly? I want to please him."

"I doubt you will have to worry about such things yet," Alysanne assured her gently. "You are only four-and-ten."

"A woman flowered and grown," Margaery said with a sly smirk, "with plenty of practice in the art of womanly love."

Alysanne laughed. "You will not have trouble pleasing him, I can promise you that," she said.

They both giggled, though they knew that there was likely plenty more to learn, and it would be many years still before Margaery and Renly might ever marry. Even still, they had flowered. Women had ways of pleasuring themselves. Alysanne herself rarely — almost never — participated in such activities, and she knew even Margaery was only practising for Renly out of sheer nervousness.

Even so, there were plenty of other things about Margaery that were worth admiring; she was proficient in many languages, such as High Valyrian and Braavosi, which they had learned together and mastered. She was also very skilled with a harp, as well as archery — which Alys had taught her.

Margaery stood and sifted though her gowns. She held up one; blue satin and green slink, with golden trim. It had a plunging neckline and bare back, which seemed a little old for Margaery now. Alysanne laughed and shook her head.

She picked out one that was more reserved, which might serve better. It was blue, with Myrish lace trim and golden roses embroidered on the front, attached to green thread vines. Margaery had made it herself. "This one," she said.

"Oh, very well," she shrugged, ducked behind her shade, and changed into the gown. Alysanne made herself busy readying the perfumes and lotions, and once Margaery was ready she did her duty. Soon enough Margaery was perfectly presentable. "If Lord Renly does not fall head over heels in love with you, he is a fool," Alysanne complimented, though her heart was not in it; her mind was far away, split between Winterfell and Starfall.

Margaery twirled and grinned. "Will you attend me today?"

"If you so wish it," Alysanne said, "but I think Mia worries you are showing favouritism. Perhaps allow her to wait on you today?"

"Mia is jealous," Margaery wrinkled her nose. "But she speaks true, I suppose." Sighing, Margaery gestured for Alysanne to open the door. "I will miss you today."

"And I, you," Alys smiled for true that time and led her lady out, down the polished wood corridors of Highgarden. She knew her way around perfectly by now. Alys left Margaery with her other handmaidens at the entrance to the gardens.

* * *

Garlan was waiting for her by the stables, one hand on his sword and the other clutching the reins of a mare he had given her two years before, as a gift for her twelfth name day. He smiled when he saw her; it spoke of warmth and love.

She knew it had been she keeping him from marrying. Garlan was seven-and-ten; old enough for a wife and yet he refused his father's offers. Twice in the past three months he had kissed her, though he would not do any more for fear of staining her honour.

"The honour of a bastard?" She had asked him, watching him wince. "I have no honour, Garlan."

She would not marry him. He was handsome, yes, but he had a duty to his house. The bannermen of the Reach might grow offended if too many Tyrells were tied to House Dayne. And besides, he was three years her senior and better suited for someone his own age.

For this she had tried to avoid him, but Garlan was everywhere. Her friend and companion. She wanted nor desired no more from him than that, she had told herself many times. But it was not true. And even still she was young. Perhaps her uncle would find a more suitable match.

Perhaps she might go back to Starfall.

Perhaps Jon might come home with her.

They were only dreams, she knew. Ridiculous wants and longings that had long since been buried but occasionally, when she let her thoughts would wander, found their way to the surface and brought tears along with them.

Hastily she dried her eyes and made her way to Garlan. "A dress, still, my lady of Dayne?"

"I need new leathers," Alys told him. "Mine have grown too small."

Garlan smiled again. He was always smiling. "I will inform my mother, if you wish," he said, assisting her in mounting, though she had no need of it. "She'd be delighted to provide you with new clothing — even if it is riding leathers."

"That would be most kind of you, Ser Garlan," she told him. He handed her a quiver of arrows and a bow.

"Back to 'Ser' and 'Lady', are we?"

Alys hummed, strapping the quiver around her chest. "I was trained to be formal, Ser," she said with a sly smile she had learned from his sister. "Now make haste and get on your horse. We have not the time for delay and winter is coming."

She loved uttering the words of her Father's house, though she had only known him for a short time as a child. She had never been to Winterfell. She had never seen snow as her brother had, though deep in her heart she wished she could.

Alys kicked off and rode out over the drawbridge. Her hair flew behind her; black as night and curled. Jon's had been much the same, she remembered sadly.

The orchards were being picked, today. Many servants and commoners were walking through the rows of hundreds of trees, collecting all sorts of fruits; plums, pears, apples, apricots... Her mouth watered just thinking about them, but she shoved her thoughts aside and made her way to the wood, where Garlan had set up the targets.

Garlan caught up with her just as she entered the many folds of trees and greenery. "It's only a mile inland," he told her.

They rode toward a clearing, as large as any, full of wildflowers and white grass. Garlan had set up six bullseyes and two dummies for them to practise on. Alys was overjoyed at the prospect; since she had flowered, Lady Alerie had told her she was no longer to use any form of weaponry, save for a dagger — as protection — for it was not ladylike. Alys had been born and raised in Dorne, however, where women fought alongside men.

A part of her was hopeful that if she deified Lady Alerie enough times she might send her back to Starfall, but that was never the case. Alerie only seemed amused or exasperated when she found out about the ways Alys had broken her rules.

The woman was stubbornly kind.

Alys loosed nine arrows before she missed for the first time. "Relax your bow arm," Garlan called from his horse. "You're holding too long, as well."

"I'm holding just fine!" Alys snapped, frustrated.

Garlan only laughed.

Angered, Alys hit the centre of the target just to spite him. It wiped the smile from his face and gave her a feeling of immense satisfaction. She let loose another, which was so precise it tore into the other arrow; splitting it in half and sending splinters of wood flying.

"You've improved," Garlan told her. He slipped off his horse. "But how are you on your feet?"

Alys frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Come on down," Garlan instructed, waiting for her in the middle of the clearing. She joined him afoot after tying her horse to a tree. They stood six yards away from their intended bullseyes. Alys had shot twice this far and done perfectly.

"Stand with one foot before the other," Garlan ordered of her. "Draw the string back to your chin and loose."

It felt odd to shoot on foot, she had to admit. It was something she so rarely did. When she was younger, she had learned on the ground, of course, but in her stubbornness she had combined two dangers into one; riding and archery. It had terrified Uncle Aron and delighted Jon.

She wondered if he had improved at all.

Alys loosed. Her arrow was _so bloody close to the centre_ it almost pained her physically. Garlan chuckled. "You are no marksman, Alys," he told her, "you're a damned Dothraki screamer."

Alys rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said. "I'll finish on foot."

She did, and by the end she was just as good as she had been on horseback. "You see?" She smirked at Garlan. "I was a little rusty, is all."

"Yes," Garlan said. "Now would you care to fight with swords?"

It had never been her strong suit, but she was learning. So far she had only made it up to a tourney sword, not proper live steel. She'd been practising for three years and still Garlan would not give her the honour.

They sparred for a great many hours, until Alys was drenched in sweat and her dress had been ruined. It was an extra challenge; fighting in a gown; one had to avoid tripping or tearing, which increased the habit of better footing.

When the sun reached its apex Garlan called off their training session. "You did well," he complimented her, pulling the arrows from where they had lodged themselves into wood and sand. Alys watched him, beaming, and allowed him to put the salvageable arrows back into her quiver.

They made their way to the horses. Garlan insisted on playing the role of a proper gentleman in that he readied her horse for her and helped her mount it. She hated being treated so fragile, but with her sore muscles and sweaty hands she welcomed the help this time.

Garlan looked at her with his warm hazel eyes once more. He smiled, and for a moment she forgot all sense of right and wrong. She wanted so badly to embrace him as a wife did a husband, as she had seen Alerie do with Mace or Margaery do with some handsome knights. But Alerie always frowned when she kissed Mace and Margaery's kisses were always so brief and chaste. Alys didn't want her kisses with Garlan to be like that.

Garlan turned his horse around and rode off, leaving her in the dust to catch up.

* * *

Lord Renly dined with House Tyrell that night.

The feast went on for hours to welcome the friend and ally of Lord Mace, and the likely future husband of Margaery. There was no official betrothal; not yet. All the same Margaery was chatting up Renly, beaming her most charming smile and touching him whenever she could, in whatever way was proper.

Alysanne sat between her Aunt Allyria and Lady Olenna. The old woman was busy cutting into her pork chop, and so Alysanne turned to Ally. "Have you heard from Uncle Aron of late?" She asked her. Ally was the only family she had here; her and her nieces Jystine and Maeryla, but they were only babes.

Aunt Ally studied her plate intently. "I have,"

"Then you know that my mother is unwell?" Alysanne sipped her wine, grateful for the chance to become more lightheaded and unbound.

Ally's gaze shot up, startled. "Yes," she said. Her voice was thick with sorrow. "I worry greatly for Ashara. I plan to ask Mace permission for your leave, so that we might travel down to Starfall to visit."

Alysanne nodded. "I apologise for not inquiring about my mother's health sooner," she said lowly. "I had no idea whether or not you knew, and in the absence of my certainties I should have come to you."

Aunt Ally smiled thinly and lightly kissed Alys on the cheek. "It's alright, Alys," she said. "You were frightened and worried and in that state very few hold rationality."

Alys laughed a bit. Her aunt's words were true; a day of sparring and archery had cleared her mind, though. Now she was sore, exhausted, and worried out of her mind. "Do you think Mace will grant your request?"

"I hope," her Aunt rested a hand on her newly swelling belly. A third child had taken root, there, though her oldest was only three. Allyria and Willas were praying for a boy, this time. Alys prayed right alongside them; Starfall had an heir in Edric, and the Reach needed a grandson for Mace.

"What is this I have overheard?" Asked Olenna.

Alysanne turned to the old woman, solemnly. She loved Olenna like her own grandmother; the woman was shrewd and sharp-minded, and had taught both Alysanne and Margaery in the art of politics and what she referred to as the 'game of thrones'.

"Lady Ashara Dayne is bedridden," her aunt said quietly. "I plan to ask your son for leave to visit her."

"It is not my son you should be asking, but me," Olenna said. She leaned back and smacked her lips, trying to taste the remnants of her spiced apricots. "And, given that you have been nothing but loyal to by house, I find it more than fitting to grand your most gracious request in returning home, my ladies."

"We thank you," Alysanne said for her aunt. "House Dayne is indebted to House Tyrell in more ways than one, Lady Olenna. It would be most shameful to see that alliance crumble over a bit of spilled milk like an ignored request to visit my sickly mother."

Olenna's lips quirked up into the most secret of smiles. She leaned forward and whispered in Alys' ear, "You are learning, my girl."

* * *

Alysanne assisted Margaery in getting ready for bed.

As she prepared the sheets and pillows for the night ahead, Margaery gave her a full report on the night's events of which Alys had missed out on given her distance from Renly and the higher lords. "He held my hand all through dinner, Alysanne," she said joyfully, "and when dessert arrived he kissed my cheek so softly, I felt I was in one of the seven heavens."

Alysanne smiled. She had half a mind to tell Margaery the truth of what she had weasled out of one of the bakers; Renly fancied only men. His affections for Margaery were staged and fake. It was a shame that Margaery would most likely never bear him children should they marry, and if at all it would be a good marriage wasted.

Still she went back to fluffing the pillows. "I'm glad," she lied, allowing a false smile to play across her lips. "It is so wonderful to see you happy, my lady."

The last part was true, of course; Margaery was her best friend. Her happiness meant a great deal to Alys, and she knew the other girl felt the same way. Margaery laughed. "I am always happy," she said. "I was blessed to live this fortunate life. It is those of need whom I wish to put my concerns onto; the hungry, the poor..."

Alys nodded. Margaery had been growing more and more focused on the less fortunate of late. Alys was glad for that; when she was gone, Margaery would have something else to focus on. Perhaps when she came back they could work on it together.

"Admirable goals," Alys laid the blankets back. "And though I wish I could continue this topic with you, Lady Margaery, I have another one I must broach with you."

Margaery frowned. "What is it?"

"My aunt and I wish to return to our home to visit Starfall," she said bluntly, putting aside southron courtesies for once. "I wondered if you had any problem with that?"

"Well surely that is not necessary, Alysanne," Margaery's brow was furrowed. "You said only that your mother was ill! She will get better soon, no doubt."

Alysanne's hands briefly tightened around the edge of a water basin, which she wet to work on filling. "I am not so sure, my lady," she said. "My uncle would not write unless he truly worried for her, and so I worry alongside him. And aside from this, I miss Starfall; it has been two years since I've breathed the Dornish air."

Margaery nodded. She climbed into bed. "It is reasonable," she said. "I will have Mia take over your duties as chief handmaiden for a few months. You will return, yes?"

She wanted to greatly to have a reason to stay in Starfall, to never return as a handmaiden; the duties and tasks had become boring, and repetitive. She wished for some form of excitement and adventure. Instead she smiled a false, painful smile again and pushed away from the side table. "I will, my lady," she said. _Someday_.

* * *

Garlan was waiting outside the door to her bedchamber.

His arms were folded over his chest, and his hair was wet from having just washed. "Lady Alysanne," he called, unusually formal.

Alys dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Lord Garlan," she said, opening the door to her rooms. Garlan slipped in. Once the door was closed, he pulled a scroll from up his sleeve and handed it to her.

She had expected to see the sigil of House Dayne, or perhaps even Tyrell, but here was the snarling direwolf of House Stark. She grinned, already crying for she knew it contained word from her brother.

Alys eagerly tore it open.

 _Sister,_

 _I am writing to inform you of the death of Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King — which you may have already known about, but all the same I thought it best to tell you before getting to my next point: His Grace Robert Baratheon is coming north. I believe that the King intends to ask our Father to become his next Hand. If this is so, Father will be in the south — not so far from you, Alys._

 _I hope you will meet him. He is a good man, as I have informed you so oft. I did not want you to be caught off guard by his appearance for a second time, however; I thought it might be fitting to warn you._

 _I miss you, sister. With every day that passes._

 _Love,_

 _Jon_

Alys let the letter furl up and wiped her eyes.

"Thank you for bringing this to me," she said to Garlan. He nodded. His hands were clasped behind his back as though he was trying to reserve himself. Alys bit her lip. And then, on an impulse of sorts, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him firmly.

If Garlan was surprised, he did not show it. He only embraced her back just as solidly, pulling her close to his chest. She held on until she could not breathe any longer, and when she finally did it was with great regret. "Was that forward of me?"

"Not at all," Garlan grinned, leaning a little closer so that their noses touched. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She felt gooseflesh spread up and down her arms. Garlan kissed her again, this time his hands straying to other places which made her blush.

Slowly she drew away. "I must retire," she told him. "Thank you again for bringing me my brother's letter."

Garlan nodded. With a last very soft kiss to her brow he departed. Alysanne was left alone to read her brother's words, over and over again. She cried herself to sleep thinking of him.

* * *

 **AN: It's Alys. Woop woop! I found this chapter to be increasingly enjoyable to write. I love Galys.**

 **Review, my lords and ladies!**

 **Much love! xx**


	8. Jon I

EIGHT : JON (I)

The King's party poured through the South Gate; at least a hundred knights and all their retainers; freeriders and sworn shields, and dozens of bannermen. The courtyard was suddenly filled with a mass of black, gold, and crimson to go along with the white, grey, and green already in place. These new people were foreign, as were these colours which did not belong.

They all knelt as one as the party invaded Winterfell's yard. Jon spotted the golden heads of the Lannisters, and the black armour of the Hound, Sandor Clegane; his ferocious snarling helm that bounced as he rode.

Robert Baratheon, unmistakable with his golden antlered crown, rode at the head of the column, backed by none other than the Kingslayer himself; Ser Jaime Lannister, along with another member of the kingsguard. Jon felt sick at the sight of the overweight man. Had his father truly told him many tales of him before? The Robert Baratheon of those stories had been tall, built, and fierce; a true warrior of the south. Now he had a girth to match his height, and his forehead was covered in sweat from the strain of riding, despite the brisk state of the air.

His Grace grunted as he slipped off his destrier — most like the only horse that could manage his weight without collapsing — and embraced Lord Eddard Stark like a long lost brother. Jon winced. The King must have cracked at least a rib or two with that hug.

"Ah, Ned," he grinned, pearly white teeth just visible under a scraggly black beard, "how glad I am to see that frozen face of yours!"

Father bowed his head. He seemed utterly befuddled. "Your Grace," he said, tremulously, "Winterfell is yours."

The King bellowed an unexpected laugh. "There is no need for courtesies, old friend," he said.

Jon blinked. It would have been understandable, of course, for King Robert to request that courtesies be put aside in private, but in front of a hoard of lowborn men and women? In front of commoners and the bannermen of both sides? That commanded no respect.

Perhaps the king thought it might warm the northerners to him... And yet even northern lords who had known one another for years observed pleasantries before speaking on equal terms. Jon shot Theon a bemused look, which his father's ward returned.

"Cat!" The King pulled Lady Stark into his arms with a jerk and a strong clinch which must have wounded both her pride and body. Jon flinched again, thankful he was in the second row of the precession and therefore of little importance.

Then the Queen and her three children, whom Jon knew to be Joffery, Myrcella, and Tommen — all of which had the golden hair and green eyes of Cersei Lannister, and bore no features of Robert Baratheon that were noticeable as of yet, were displayed.

Lord Stark's trueborn children were then brought forward and introduced to the King and Queen, and their own three heirs. Robert Baratheon clapped Robb on the back, complimented Sansa so well she blushed, gave Arya an approving nod, ruffled Rickon's hair and nodded to Bran.

"Ned!" The King barked. "Take me down to your crypt! I would pay my respects."

Jon bristled. A sudden, fiery anger had spread through him. How dare this southron man presume to walk in the crypts of the Starks? Who was he to demand more grief and pain of Jon's father? Robb seemed to wonder the same, for he turned to Jon with eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Their Father only nodded briskly, after the King dismissed Cersei Lannister's pleas at rest and patience — to which Jon wholeheartedly agreed with. Father led Robert down into the dark depths of the crypts, out of sight.

Lady Stark exchanged words with the queen and ordered her chief handmaidens to show the Lannister woman to her bedchambers. The royal children followed along — the younger two overly eager and the oldest disdainful.

Jon turned to Theon. The Greyjoy heir and he had gotten off to an unsteady start, at first, but gradually after many arguments and fights and long talks about their families and homes, they had discovered that they were not so different after all; they both missed their roots, and both envied Robb for the unconditional love his father bore him — they had disclosed none of this to Robb himself, however.

Even still Theon was not Jon's true friend; he was arrogant, cocky, and a bit stupid, but all the same he was better an ally than enemy.

"Did you see the queen?" Theon asked him, voice low.

Jon dug his boots into the mud, grinding his teeth. "The King has little respect, it would seem," he told Greyjoy. "He does not heed his wife's council nor does he bother to consider the feelings of others; it would seem the Iron Throne has gotten to his head."

Robb nodded solemnly, but Theon scoffed. "Why the fuck would the _king_ listen to any _woman_? What advice can they give?"

Jon wanted to shove him, box his ears, or punch him. He did not, however. _Better an ally than enemy._ "She is a Lannister," he reminded his companion, "the daughter of Lord Tywin, who is said to be brilliant and well-thought in both politics and battle tactics. Surely he passed down some of that knowledge to his daughter — and even still women are not numbskulls to shove your cock into, Theon."

At that, both Robb and Theon laughed — Robb a little more hesitant and Theon a little more hostile. "You are right about two things, bastard," said a voice from behind them.

Jon turned, careless of the insult — if it was one. There by the kennels was none other than Tyrion Lannister, clad in stained red leather that conformed to his stunted body. He held a skin of wine and his hooded face was grinning ruefully.

Jon folded his arms over his chest and leaned back. "And what things would those be, imp?"

Perhaps he was being bold. Perhaps he was being a fool. It mattered not; Jon was of Dorne and the Dornish were blunt and forthright, whether the people of the other six kingdoms cared for it or not. Tyrion did not take offence, however; he merely laughed.

"My sister is indeed a Lannister, which means that she is cunning and sharp, but do not mistake me: she is not the brightest of the bunch. No, that would be me." He grinned and sipped his wine.

Theon snorted. "Like that's true," he said. "I doubt you've even got a brain in that thick skull of yours."

"Shut up, Theon," Jon glared at him. Once the Greyjoy heir had backed off, he looked back at Tyrion Lannister. "What's the other thing I was right about?"

Tyrion smirked. "Eager for compliments, bastard?" He asked. "Ah, well, I suppose those of us who are smiled to and shit on all at once strive for such things," he took a step forward, stumbling a bit from how drunk he was. "You are right in that women are not holes for plugs. I commend you for such... Open-mindedness."

Jon bowed gracefully. "I thank you, Tyrion of Lannister."

"There is no need, Jon of Dayne," the imp grinned again and gave a mocking bow to the three of them. Then he stalked off.

"You just get all the attention, don't you?" Theon rolled his eyes and left Jon and Robb standing in the mud, staring one another down.

"You grow bold, brother," said Robb, frowning. It had been four years since Robb had first called him 'brother'. Since then, nor he or Jon had thought anything else of each other but the simple truth: they were brothers, friends, and rivals on occasion.

Such as now. Jon only managed a small smile which he hoped conveyed some form of humility. "Aye," he said. "Perhaps they will compare me to Ser Barristan Selmy, one day."

Robb chuckled at that, and threw an arm around Jon's shoulders. They made their way to the godswood, where they might walk their direwolves in private without having to worry about disturbing the King's company. His sister's wolf had grown restless, of late.

* * *

Ghost and Dawn splashed in the dark spring before the heart tree, sniffing at the red fallen leaves that floated on the surface. Jon and Robb sat in the thick mulch, coats spread around them like dark pools of shadow.

Jon wondered if his siblings envied him for having two wolves. He did not see why they should; one was meant for Alys, his sister, but as she was currently being housed in the Reach with the delicate flowers of the south, he did not think that she would appreciate the gift of a direwolf-pup.

He wished she could see Dawn, mayhaps hold her for herself. The wolf had been named after their Uncle Arthur's sword. Her pelt was that of red and gold, like Dornish sands. Jon could still recall what they had looked like, though the image was vague and unsure.

Robb whistled to Grey Wind to leave the Heart Tree be. His wolf backed off and went to play with his litter-mates, huffing and whining.

"How is she?" Asked Robb, passing Jon the skin of Arbor hold they had swiped from the kitchens.

Jon sipped, frowning. The separation of himself and his sister was an old pain, and yet just a mention of her stung. He wanted to see her so badly, to tell her of all he had neglected to include in his letters, which were scarce in themselves. He remembered when they were small; playing on the shores of the nearby rivers, making sandcastles in the summer and mudpies in the winter. When they had been very small, he had called her _Sanni_ , which had annoyed her to all of the seven hells.

"She is well," he told Robb, "but my mother is not. My uncle has informed me that she is ill."

"Ill?" Robb leaned back against the trunk of a pine tree, mindless of sap and needles. "Does Father know?"

"Nay," Jon downed another swallow of the golden wine. "He has been far too busy with matters of the north and the King. I had no wish to burden him with such thoughts, nor to invoke the wrath of your lady mother."

Robb huffed a laugh. It was short lived, for suddenly his usually mirth-filled features grew solemn and serious. Jon had never seen him look so like father. "You know she harbours no resentment toward you."

"She says she doesn't," Jon replied easily, wine making his tongue loose, "and she acts as though she doesn't. And yet..."

"And yet," Robb agreed with a sharp nod. He stole the skin back.

Dawn yelped, suddenly. Jon's gaze shot up to see that his sister's wolf had been snapped at by Ghost. He chuckled, amused. "She needs Alys," he told Robb bitterly, woeful at the sound of her name. "Dawn will be wild by the time she meets up with her mistress."

Robb sighed. "You can do nothing of it just now, brother," he said regretfully. "Alysanne will have to wait for her wolf."

Ghost approached, looking strangely sheepish. Jon ruffled his shaggy white fur with a bemused grin. He loved his pup; Ghost was quiet, and deadly, unlike the other wolf pups who made their strengths known to one another. He held his ferocity behind all else, putting up a facade of humility, not unlike Jon himself.

Dawn was an enigma to him, on the other hand; she imported herself with a silent dignity over the wolves, and yet when provoked she went from unsuspecting to terrifying at once. He had a feeling that she was a reflection of the sister he no longer knew.

Robb stood unsteadily, leaning up against a tree for support. Jon could not help but laugh. He had half a mind to give his brother a good shove, just to see what would happen, but that was when they heard the voices.

"No, Jamie," the high, lofty voice of the queen carried though the godswood and sent terror straight to Jon's heart. Quickly, acting on pure instinct alone, he shoved Robb behind a cluster of thick shrubbery and knelt down next to him. The wolves followed instantly, thank the gods, though Jon knew not why or how they had known to hide. Moments later, the queen and her twin brother, Jamie Lannister, came into view. "Now is not the time."

To Jon's great surprise and disgust, the man reached out for her breast. At first Jon did not quite understand what was happening, but then, as he watched the queen reluctantly allow her brother's touch, it dawned upon him.

"Seven hells," Robb whispered.

Jon clamped a hand over his mouth in a panic. Thankfully, the Lannister woman only huffed. "I hate this place," she complained, turning away from her brother — no, her lover. "I hate the north, I hate the cold..."

"I will warm you, then," the Kingslayer smiled that deadly slash of a grin and wrapped his arms around her from behind. "We will melt all of this bloody snow together, mm?"

Cersei shook her head. "Not here," she said sharply. "The wind speaks, and the trees have faces. Anyone could be watching."

 _Yes_ , Jon wanted to shout. _Anyone at all._ He kept silent, however. As silent as the two wolves at his side. They understood the importance of this moment, he gathered with relief. Clever creatures.

"Who do you think is spying on us? You are the queen, and I am your brother — an anointed knight. Your husband is still squatting in the crypts with his wolf-friend... You worry, I understand that; you worried with Jon Arryn and you worry again, but about who? What do you fear, sister? Do you fear me inside you, suddenly? After all these years?"

Cersei actually laughed at that. "No," she said. "No, I do not. But I cannot risk it. Not in such an open place."

"I'll fuck you anywhere, sweet sister," Jamie smirked, "even in that ruin of a tower."

Cersei's eyes lit up. "Meet me there tomorrow, then," she said in a rush. "Robert will no doubt go on a hunt to celebrate Ned Stark accepting his position as Hand—"

"If he does accept," Jamie said softly.

"If he does," she agreed, nodding. "If he does we will go to that tower and pretend that we are free. Will you come?"

Jamie answered her with a kiss. Jon looked away in disgust, unable to process all of this new information and yet, all the same, he was seeing it. It was there. Robb was with him, seeing it, too. Seven hells...

Father as Hand, as well. That was another thing. Jon had suspected it. He had even written Alys with his hopes that it would be so. Now, with this new knowledge, he was positive he had to protect their father from the madness of the south.

And Alys, too.

After Cersei left, Jamie whipped out his cock and pissed on the Heart Tree.

* * *

"What in the seven hells was that?!" Robb looked half-mad, eyes wide and hands spread out. His hair was a mess from shaking it out, as though he could remove the thoughts in his head that were swirling around and around, all fighting for the surface.

Jon shook his head, staring at the defiled Heart Tree. "He pissed on it," he informed Robb.

"He's fucking the queen!" Robb yelled.

Jon hushed him quickly. "Do you want to alert them? Would you like your tongue ripped out by hot pincers, Robb?"

His brother buried his head in his hands. "I can't..." He drew in a sharp breath, closed his eyes, and emptied his stomach all over the ground. "Oh, Gods..."

"Do you understand what you saw?" Jon demanded of him.

Robb rolled his eyes. "I'm not an amateur, Jon," he said. "Gods... They're brother and sister! It's just wrong!"

"Aye," Jon agreed, exasperated, "but _do you understand what this means?_ "

Robb wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, considering. "It means that the queen is in an incestuous relationship with her brother, and they've been hiding it for years."

"Yes it does," Jon knelt beside him, mouth set into a grim line. "It also means that there is a very large chance the queen's children are not legitimate, but instead bastards born by Cersei and Jamie Lannister."

"That can't be," Robb dismissed, "the King would know. I mean, gods..."

Jon shook his head. He did not know why or how he was so certain of this idea that had formed in his mind, but he was determined to make Robb see. "Think about it, please," he said. "The children all have the golden hair and green eyes of the queen. You saw them. And you witnessed the same thing as I."

"How could it be that the King is unawares?" Robb asked, still slightly disbelieving.

"I don't know," Jon said. "I... We'll keep our eyes on them, brother. We'll listen for as much as we can. When we're sure, we will inform Father of what we have learned. Not before."

Robb nodded. He rose with Jon's help, shaking and pale. "You must compose yourself," Jon told him, "and we cannot be seen exiting the godswood at this time. The queen will suspect, if she knows."

Robb managed to calm himself. Jon let him finish off the last of the wine, partially to calm his nerves and partially as a cover if someone asked why Robb was acting so strange. They made their way to the inner bailey wall together and climbed up, just as Bran had so often done. Jon took a moment to rest on the battlements, triumphant in his deception of the queen.

Jon led Robb down to the yard. Most of the King's party had dispersed by that time, now occupying the Guest Keep and Winter Town. Theon was showing off his marksmanship to the Princess Myrcella, who stood patiently with Lady Sansa and Lady Stark. Jon studied her, and saw only she sharp features of the queen and her brother — none of the ruddy face of the King was reflected in her.

Jon clenched his fists. Beside him, Robb placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded his head.

 _I'm with you, brother. Now and always._

* * *

The hall was stifling.

All around Jon there were squires, lowborn men, knights and bannermen. He knew they spoke, knew they drank, knew they laughed, but he did not listen to them. He paid them no mind. His attention was fixed solely upon the flickering candle in the middle of the table, watching as the wax slipped down in one hot tear.

Up at the high table, which housed the voices he so strained to hear, there was the Queen, King, the Lannister brothers, Father and Lady Stark and all of the children. Sansa and Arya were bickering, Tommen was pouting, Joffery was scowling petulantly, which gave Jon half a mind to break his jaw.

His Father was silent, and Lady Stark conversed lightly with the queen. He could not hear the words over the squeals of the serving wenches that the King was feeling up. Jon wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Ghost and Dawn whined at his feet. They were staring up at him, having finished all of the scraps he had given them. Jon, now amused at their savagery, knifed a whole chicken and handed it to the two very pleased animals.

"Are these the famous direwolves I've heard so much about?"

Jon turned, grinning at the sight of his uncle Benjen. "Aye," he told him.

Benjen huffed, straddling the bench with his long legs and ruffling Jon's hair — which was equally as unruly as his own, and now even worse. He stole a horn of ale off the table and drank deeply. Benjen seemed to relish in the act, unlike Jon, who drank only to forget tonight.

"How have you been, uncle?"

Benjen shrugged. "Cold," he said shortly. "Why is it that you sit here of all places, Jon? You are a legitimised bastard, now, are you not?"

"You are correct," Jon said, leaning back, "and yet the Lannisters have great pride."

 _So much pride,_ Jon thought, _that they would lay with one of their own in order to avoid the dissatisfaction of an outsider._

Uncle Benjen smirked. "That they do, nephew," he said. His expression turned from amused to serious in a heartbeat. "The lions of Casterly Rock are not the only ones with pride, Jon; some say the King's ego has grown at the same rate as his girth. I worry for my brother."

"I worry for my Father," Jon confessed. He scooted closer to his uncle. "I overheard that the King might ask Father to be his Hand. You know as well as I that some wolves do not belong in the south."

"Some wolves," Benjen agreed solemnly. "How fares your sister, Alys?"

Jon bit his lip. "She is well, as far as I know," he said, "I miss her, though... I haven't laid eyes on her in six years."

Benjen's eyes turned sad. Jon had a feeling that he was thinking of Lyanna. "I know what that is like," he told Jon. A pained smile made it's way across his lips. "Fret not, nephew," he said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "I am sure you will be reunited with your sister soon."

 _I am not so sure, uncle,_ Jon thought sadly, as he watched Benjen depart to the high table.

* * *

 **AN: Hello, my lords and ladies! I apologise for the late chapter. My life has been an absolute hectic nightmare, at the moment, and I had not the motivation nor the time to get this update out. But here it is now :)**

 **Anyway, please do review. Feedback is very important to me!**

 **Much love! xx**


	9. Robb I

NINE : ROBB (I)

Sansa sat opposite him, on the end of his bed, with her feet tucked beneath her and a heated glow surrounding her. She looked incredibly joyous; a beam stretched across her pale face and her Tully eyes bright with wonder. "Oh, he was so gallant, Robb! Did you see? Did you see how handsome he is? His golden hair is like the sun, do you not think so?"

Robb could only grunt. He felt as though he was betraying his sister by not telling her his suspicions, but without being certain how could he put such doubts into her mind? It would only wound her. Even so, was it not the honourable thing to warn her? She wound no doubt be hurt either way. Nonetheless, the prince was a right royal prick. How Sansa could not see that was beyond him.

His sister beamed again. She stood up and wrapped her pale blue cloak tighter around her. "Do you think the queen likes me? She asked me if I was flowered or not. I think she was disappointed when I said no..."

Robb felt supremely uncomfortable with those mere words. He was not one to discuss such personal matters with his sister, and yet in her great distress he suspected she was barely paying attention to what she was saying anyway. "I doubt that matters," he said, with all the knowledge of a four-and-ten year old, near a man grown. "You are only a young girl, sister."

"You're right," she decided, turning away from Robb's window and smiling once more. "Mother said that I would have to go south to marry Joffery, with Father when he accepts the position as Hand."

" _If_ he accepts," Robb retorted, harsher than he had meant to be. Sansa blinked like a startled doe, and Robb softened at once. "It would not be a wise move for Father to abandon the north at this time; the deserter from the Watch spoke of things stirring in the north. It would be far better for him to stay here."

"But you would be _Lord of Winterfell_ ," Sansa protested, smiling. "You would have the whole of the north under your command! Wouldn't that be just wonderful? Besides, you're brave, Robb; you'd be able to handle a few _wildlings_." She rolled her eyes as though suggesting otherwise might be the stupidest thing in the world.

Robb chewed his lip. He did not want to frighten her, nor did he want to crush those dreams that filled her head. And yet, Sansa had always been too trusting in her songs and stories. Perhaps it was time to break that. It would be for her own betterment.

"I am not yet a man grown, Sansa, nor have I ever been in battle. I have no experience—"

"You practise with swords all the time, Robb!"

"Not live steel, Sansa," Robb said firmly. "And I'm not just talking about wildlings! The man of the Watch spoke of the Others. Now, I am not so easily inclined to believe such things—"

"Good," Sansa sniffed loftily, "the Others have been gone for thousands of years, Robb. They're just stupid stories."

 _How ironic_ , Robb wanted to say, but he did not. Sansa might start to cry, or yell, and what was worse was the inevitable feeling of guilt he would get upon insulting his sister. "Sansa," Robb stood, crossed the room swiftly which made his drunken head swim, and took her hands in his own. He had to be gentle, but firm, like Father. "A month ago, there were no more direwolves south of the Wall. Now there are seven. Do you honestly think that it is impossible for things to change? To go wrong? Because I assure you, sister, there are worse things than not marrying your prince on the morrow."

Sansa swallowed. "Why do you believe the deserter?" She asked quietly.

 _It is not him I place my trust in, but my instincts_ , Robb held back. He sighed. "Upon death many men say different things, but it is their fear that condemns them. You can see it in their eyes, Sansa. You can see that they believe the words they speak."

 _The madman sees what he sees._

Sansa started to shake after that, and so Robb said no more, but rather hugged her fiercely and let her retire for the night. When she was gone, Robb stood alone — resting against the back wall of his bedchamber — with only his thoughts for company.

Poor company they made, he decided, thinking of the scene he and Jon had witnessed in the wood. It was clear to him now that the princes and princess were indeed born of incest; though they shared no resemblance to their Father, Robb had hoped to see something akin in personality that night. But it seemed that Joff was still a twat, Myrcella was as timid as a bluebird, and Tommen was a doughy little thing — absolutely not a child of the boisterous Robert Baratheon.

The queen and the Kingslayer... That was a whole other ordeal. Not only were the children illegitimate and borne of a lie, but the queen's ongoing relationship with her brother — the thought of it made Robb sick all over again.

It was wrong, all wrong... And yet Robb had spoken to Jon after the feast. They had made a plan as they stood in the darkened shadows of the Great Hall, whispering of what they should do and whom they should tell.

Father, absolutely, had been at the top of Robb's list as one to let in on their shared knowledge. Jon to his surprise had refused adamantly, saying that it could put Father in more danger than he already was, but eventually Robb had argued that ignorance was a greater weapon than most, and Jon had conceded.

It was the hour of the wolf when his brother came to fetch him. They shared a swig of summerwine to calm their nerves, and then they made their brisk walk down to the Lord's chamber together. Robb's hands were shaking.

Jon rapped on the door. In the seconds of silence it took for their Father to call, "Enter," Robb allowed his worries to briefly take hold of him; what if Father did not believe them? What if he claimed they were foolish? Or traitors? What if he demanded that they not even tell the King?

Jon pushed the door open. It was a sight to see his Father dressed in but a bathrobe and his mother laying under a mound of furs with the lot of them pulled up to her chin. He would have been amused if he was not so worried and disgusted with the idea of his parents' nightly activities.

"Lord Stark," Jon said firmly. If it had been for anything else the two of them might have blushed and made excuses to leave, but this was not a day to skirt around the truth. Robb closed the door and bolted it shut, grim and resolute.

Father raised his eyebrows. He could tell they were fearful, Robb knew. He could sense it on them as wolves were wont to do. "What is wrong? What is it?"

Robb grabbed a spare blanket from off the end of his mother's bed and stuffed it in the crack under the door. Jon laced his fingers together beside him, anxious. "We have worrisome news to share with you," he said, suddenly firm. Robb thought in that moment he sounded a proper lord.

"Oh?" Mother looked abashed and embarrassed, but nonetheless short with them for interrupting... What they had been doing. Robb's stomach churned. "What news would this be?"

"It's about the queen," Robb told them quickly, resisting the strong urge to avert his eyes. "And her brother, the Kingslayer."

"The Kingslayer?" Father questioned. He was frowning. Robb could see the doubt curling his features — pronouncing what few lines there were upon his face.

Jon lightly and discreetly whacked Robb on the arm, signalling for him to take the lead in speaking. Robb cleared his throat. "This morning, after the King and all the rest arrived, Jon and I went out to walk the wolves in the godswood," he informed his Father. "We were about to leave when we heard voices — the queen and her brother. We hid, not wanting to be caught, and that was when... When they spoke of their relationship with one another."

He phrased it as delicately as he could manage, trying to convey what he could not speak with his eyes.

Father and Mother only frowned. "What do you mean, Robb?" Mother asked, noticing the anger in his voice. "What happened?"

"What Robb is trying to say," Jon piped up, uncomfortable, "is that Cersei and Jaime Lannister are involved in an incestuous relationship with one another. We have strong suspicions that the royal children are bastards born of incest, as well."

They were stunned, it was plain to see. Mother was gaping. Father gently set his chalice of wine upon the bedside table and approached them with great caution. "You jest," he said. "Surely, you must be jesting."

Robb shook his head. "This is no tale weaved by green boys, Father," he said. "Jaime Lannister... touched his sister in places improper for a brother to even consider. He said... He said he would 'fuck her anywhere' if I recall correctly."

"You do," Jon reported grimly. He marched over to the wine jug, mindless of Father's rules, and poured him and Robb a cupful both. Once he had downed his first, Jon seemed to have gathered his courage. He turned to their white-faced Father. "You know I would never make such a thing up. You know I would never lie, never tell you if I was not sure. Honour is your way, and so it is mine. Here I do the honourable thing: I tell my Father what I have learned, for these matters are fragile and not to be handled by those of inexperience and foolishness."

"You are no fool, Jon," Father said firmly. Their eyes locked, and something that Robb did not understand passed between them.

Jon handed Robb the goblet. "You must inform the King," Robb said. "It is the honourable thing to do, if we truly speak of honour. He has every right to know."

"And what of the queen? What of her children?" Father looked torn.

It was Mother who answered. "We take the children into our custody," she said firmly. "We raise them as wards. However, I do not imagine Robert will like the idea of a contestant for the throne; Joffery was raised a prince. He is an entitled little boy. Perhaps it would be better to send him to the Wall?"

Father nodded. "Yes," he said. "And Robert... Cersei..."

"The queen deserves whatever punishment the King sees fit. Whether it is to execute her murderous brother, or lock her in the Black Cells — it matters not. All that matters now is telling him. Withhold what little wrath of his you can, Ned; he trusts you as an advisor, he will listen to you."

"How will we tell him?" Father demanded.

"We have a plan on that account," Robb and Jon said together.

* * *

They explained, and Mother and Father helped them smooth over the details.

An hour later they were still deep in conversation when there was another knock on the door. Father admitted them, while Robb quickly unbolted the door and kicked the blanket away. It was only Maester Luwin, who seemed surprised to see him and Jon in the room with Lord and Lady Stark.

"My lord and lady," Luwin bowed his head, befuddled. "I bring a missive from the Vale."

"The Vale?" Mother quickly took the offered scroll and slipped the wax seal off. She read it, brows furrowed, until finally her face cleared. "Gods above..." She whispered.

Father scowled, clearly impatient that she had taken the message, not he. "What is it?"

"Lysa..." She whispered. "Lysa writes to tell me that Jon Arryn was murdered. By the Lannisters."

It seemed to click for the four of them at once. Jon's back straightened from where he sat, Father's eyes widened. Mother quickly tossed the message into the flames and watched it burn. "How do you know this to be true? How does she?" Robb asked.

Mother shook her head. She seemed to be in a great deal of shock. "She told me that the Lannsiters poisoned him. That it was no sickness that took him to the seven heavens." Her eyes were fixed upon the flames as she spoke, voice shaking.

"And she put all of this in a letter?" Father asked, disbelieving.

"When we were children, Lysa and I created our own secret language," she confessed, wrapping her arms around her cloak. She turned to Father. "Her words are true, Ned. She would not write such a thing, knowing it could have been intercepted, if she was lying."

Father, looking full of grief, seated himself in a chair. He ran a hand over his face. "This is madness," he whispered.

"This is the south," Jon argued, sipping his wine. He was perched on the writing desk, feet resting on a stool. "They are all murderers and liars, I can promise you."

Robb wanted to know how he knew that, but then he remembered that he had lived there until he was seven, and had received several ravens in the time in which he had been living in Winterfell, through which he could have learned much of the ways of southroners.

"What would you have me do?" Father asked of them.

"Do not go south," the three of them said together — Jon's voice the loudest.

Father looked strained. His eyes looked up to Jon, who was resolutely staring Father down. "We know why he was murdered," Jon said quietly. "At least, we have a good idea why. It would be foolish to venture into the snake pit that is Kings Landing. And winter is coming, Father."

That got him, Robb knew. Something in his eyes changed.

"You all must rest," he said, sending a grateful nod to a very confused Maester Luwin. "I will think over this and come back to you with an answer."

Robb nodded shortly. He had no wish to continue the conversation any longer. Jon left with him. They did not speak on their way back to their rooms, and yet Jon's look as he departed said all Robb needed to know; _we did what we could._

* * *

In the morning, Robb dined on a rasher of bacon and eggs, though the food was tasteless with his nerves.

Bran, beside him, was sitting relentlessly. Robb attempted to strike up conversation with his little brother, in an effort to bury his growing unease. "What will you do today, while we hunt?"

Bran shrugged. "I'm not sure," he confessed. Then his eyes lit up. "Perhaps I'll climb! I know mother forbade me, but you won't tell, will you?"

Robb grit his teeth. What is his brother wandered to the Broken Tower? It was one of his favourite structures to climb. "No climbing today, Bran," he ordered firmly, trying to sound every bit a lord. "I know you never fall, but winter is coming; there are more dangers than just unsteady hands."

"But—"

"Not today," Robb said. He hardened his voice and Bran meekly stirred his bowl of honeyed oats. "Do you understand me, Brandon?"

With the use of his full name, Bran knew that Robb was serious. "I do," he said. "I promise not to climb."

Robb nodded. He pulled on his brown leather gloves to block out the bite in the air. "Are you ready?" Jon asked him, voice low.

Robb nodded shortly. They were ready. The plan was simple. He rose from his seat, and followed Jon out into the courtyard. Father and the King were there as well. Robb mounted his horse quickly. They headed to the West Gate, right by the Broken Tower — though word had been spread that they would be leaving from the East Gate. Robb had done that himself.

As they approached, Robb listened. The sounds of moaning and grunting were just audible. Robb felt as though he was going to empty his stomach, at the thought of what the Kingslayer was doing to his sister.

King Robert chuckled from beside Robb's father. "Some serving wench and her man, eh?" Thank the gods, his voice did not carry. "The north is looser than I previously thought!"

Father nodded shortly. He had halted, making a small show of adjusting his reins. While he was at it, Jon shot Robb a look: _now_.

Robb nudged Grey Wind and, as they had rehearsed at dawn near six times, the wolf bolted off toward the tower, likely expecting someone with a treat for him above. Still Robb could hear the siblings going at it. He quickly slipped off his palfrey, calling out, "Grey Wind!" though he did not yell.

He chased the wolf up the familiar path of the tower, footsteps light. At the top, the door was open. The Kingslayer was visible, breeches round his ankles, and the queen was bent over, gasping. Robb recoiled at the sight.

His mass of a wolf tackled the two to the ground. The queen screamed bloody murder, and the Kingslayer reached for a sword that was not there. In just his tunic the wolf pinned him to the ground, bearing his teeth. Jaime Lannister was so shocked he forgot to protect his lady.

Robb stepped out of the shadows, sword in hand and trained on the queen's chest. The steel blade flashed in the sun, glinting menacingly. "Call off your wolf," she hissed, eyes fire.

"Why should I?" Robb asked. He was genuinely looking, waiting for some form of an excuse. Some reason as to why the queen would lie with her brother — would betray the King in such an unlawful way.

The queen gave him naught but a fierce glare. "I will have you hanged for this," she whispered. "I will watch as lions devour your eyes—"

"YOUR GRACE!" Robb screamed, at the top of his lungs.

It was unnecessary; his father and Jon had already led the King up the steps to the top of the tower, as they had previously discussed. Robb heard him before he saw him; huffing and grunting. When he came into view, he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. "What is it, boy? What is the—"

His eyes found the queen, open legged with Robb's sword at her throat, and her twin brother lying on the ground with his manhood still out, attempting to push a heavy Grey Wind off of him.

The King's face turned purple as the gears clicked into place. "Remove your blade, boy," he ordered, fists clenched so tightly they were white. "And order your wolf off."

Robb did as he was bid. "Grey Wind, to me."

He gleaned a sick satisfaction of sorts as he wanted the furious King tower over his lady wife. "Seven hells, woman," he growled. "You are going to be the death of me."

"You give me hope at last," Cersei hissed. "For years I have prayed to the seven; take him from me. Kill him as you see fit, I care not, but let him no longer take air into his lungs. Let his wounds bleed and let me lap up his blood, let me fuck my brother in it."

Robb backed away, straight into Father. He put a hand on Robb's shoulder and gave him a firm look; _be strong, my son._

"Find a block, damn it," Robert ordered. "Ned! Where to you preform your executions?"

"Your Grace," Father took a heavy step forward. "It would not be wise—"

"Fuck wisdom!" The King rounded on father, eyes wide and full of blood lust. Robb had seen the look on Theon's face a few times. It made him uneasy. "The bitch is mine, as is the Kingslayer!"

"They are Lord Tywin's son and daughter; one of the most powerful men in Westeros. Your Grace, if you touch a golden hair on either of their heads, you will no doubt invoke the wrath of Lord Tywin and all his sixty thousand men."

Robert grunted. He turned back to the queen. "Vaegar!" He called. A short, pale man stepped forward. He wielded an axe and a sly grin, as though he had been a conspirator all along. "Tie up the Kingslayer and his whore! I want them both locked away in cells!"

Vaegar and two other men did the deed, not even bothering to hand Jaime Lannister back his trousers before they marched him down the tower. The queen went next, screaming and yelling and clawing as best she could before Robert marched over and struck her clear across the cheek. Robb winced. It was in that moment that Robb saw his brother, Bran, peeking through the window.

Robb quickly marched over and yanked Bran through the open frame, scowling. His brother yelped. "What did I tell you?" Robb demanded, setting him down on the ground. "I said, 'no climbing today,' and what did you do?"

Bran shuffled his feet. "I climbed," he confessed, guilty.

Robb shook his head in utter exasperation, one hand on his brother's slim shoulder. "Bran," he said, kneeling, "I've seen you climb a thousand times; in the wind, in the rain, in the snow, and you have never once fallen. But there were different dangers today, dangers I knew of and had no wish for you to be part of."

"I'm sorry," he said.

Robb sighed. "Father will deal with you," he said, nudging his brother over to where Robert and their father were quietly conferring. Jon joined them.

"You should listen to Robb," Jon said slowly. "One of these days... I worry for you, Bran."

"As brothers are wont to do," Father said quietly. Had he been listening? Robb flushed. "You are almost a man grown, Bran, and my son no less. It is past time you acted the part and ceased in giving into childish temptations."

"Instead," said Theon, seemingly undeterred by the day's events, "you can focus on your more adult temptations, eh?"

"Shut up, Theon," Robb and Jon spat together.

"Come," said Father, steering the three of them out the door. The King followed. "We have much to discuss."

* * *

 **AN: Chapter 9, everybody! I told you all not to worry; obviously Ned would be informed. How did you like it? Review, please, they bring me joy! Chapter 10: Ashara. Get ready, yo.**

 **Much love xx**


	10. Ashara III

TEN : ASHARA (III)

Her doors were thrown wide open.

Melina entered, scowl in place. She laid the tray of broth and honeyed milk on Ashara's beside table and sat down, prepared to feed her, for Ashara's own arms were far too weak. Begrudgingly, she allowed her brother's wife to spoon the hot soup into her mouth.

As she ate, she thought. About her life, about her children, about her brothers and mother and father...

Jon had not written for three moons, Alysannoe for a week. She was glad for her daughter's upcoming visit; it had been so long since she had seen her. Alys was a woman grown, now. Flowered, practised and poised, Lady Alerie had told her.

She envied the woman, to tell true; Alys had been living with Alerie since she was seven. Did she remember Ashara, or had she replaced her with Lady Tyrell? Did Alysanne remember her mother's face? Did she remember her smile?

Would she live to see her again?

"No more," Ashara told her good-sister, pulling back. The dark woman sighed and set down the broth, none-too-firmly, on the table and went for the milk — which was no doubt warm by now. "No thank you, Melina."

Raising her eyebrows, Melina sighed. "As you wish," she said sternly, "but your bones will grow weak if you neglect your milk, Ashara."

"Then I will suck my teat," Ashara snapped, finally breaking. She was tired of the entitled woman, tired of her nagging and orders and scowls. "Go, sweet sister."

Startled and affronted, Melina swept out, slamming the doors behind her.

Ashara leaned back against the soft pillows, breathing deeply. The air smelt of perfume and wine, and stale air. Ashara felt so tired, and yet she held what little strength she had left close to her heart. If she was going to die, she wanted it to happen while there still remained parts of her — of Ashara Dayne, sister to the Sword of the Morning, mother of dragons and wolves, Lady of Starfall, lover of Eddard Stark of Winterfell.

And yet Ned loved her no more, she had seen that upon his last visit. After she had struck him, which she still regretted to this day, she had seen the warmth and light and love leave his eyes forever. Gone like his words.

Ashara stared at her hand. It was thin and bony — frail like that of an old woman's. She had aged before ageing. She was going to die before she had lived. Was this truly the same hand that had slapped the great and honourable Lord Stark? It could not be. It was so weak. So small.

Her gaze turned to the open window, where the winds of the Sunset Sea blew the pale orange curtains. Outside, she could see the gardens, where her little children had played so long ago. They were not little, any longer, nor where they her children. They were Ned's, and Lady Alerie's, and all of those others who had kept her babies away from her.

Was it that which had made her fall ill? Or was it something worse? Something evil?

Ashara sighed. She so wanted to leave this bed. She wanted to find her son and daughter. She wanted to hold them tight in her arms and never let them go — never again.

With that she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

 _The seas were raging. Thick dark walls of water slapped against the slippery rocks, over and over, until pieces broke away. Then they were gone. The winds of winter blew the flags; dark as night with a three-headed dragon emblazoned on the centre. Red like blood._

 _Her screams echoed through the night. There was naught they could do to stop her pain, and yet Rhaella felt strong. This was the land of her ancestors, after the Doom of Valyria. This was where they had conquered, where the last dragons breathed the salty air._

 _Her babe was pushing out of her, tearing through her loins like they were paper. She hated the feeling; she always had. But she had grown used to it after seven before. Of those seven, only two had lived. Her precious Rhaegar; so sweet and good and kind. Her Viserys, whom she loved for all his faults._

 _Please, she prayed to the Mother, to the Father, to the Crone; please let this child live. My last child, I know it will be. Please. I ask for nothing more. Let this child live to see silver turn to white. Let this child live to see dragons rise from the ashes..._

 _There was another searing, tearing pain. She screamed. None had ever been this bad. Not that she could recall. Her fierce little dragon._

 _"Mother?" It was Viserys at her side, she knew, but in this light — so dim and unkind — he looked just like Rhaegar. Her first born. Her strongest. "Mother, why is the baby hurting you?"_

 _He did not understand. How could he? Such a young thing... There was still time for him to change..._

 _Rhaella reached out and gently stroked her son's cheek. "My sweet boy," she said, "it must bring mamma pain to have life. It is a sacrifice I willingly make. Dragons are strong, my sweet. Dragons breathe fire. This child is waking."_

 _Viserys absorbed every word that slipped past her feverish lips. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, then. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for the grief she was about to bestow upon him. She wanted so badly to see him smile once more, as he had so often when he was a babe. Her little smiling boy..._

 _But that had been Jaehaerys, hadn't it? Her bundle of sunlight? Silver gold hair shining against a summer sky._

 _Rhaella leaned back against the headboard. "My son," she whispered, "Jae..."_

 _With the loss of her many children, Rhaella conjured her strength and love and want, and pushed... Wails filled the air. The Maester pulled the child from her and swaddled it with the blanket she had made; black and red and silver and gold..._

 _"A girl, Your Grace," the Maester announced. "Healthy as all else."_

 _Rhaella nodded weakly and closed her eyes. "Daenerys," she breathed. After that, she did not breathe again._

* * *

Ashara shot awake, shaking.

It was night, now, as it had been in the dream. Ashara sat up, feeling all of the sudden strong. Strong enough even to leave her bed.

And so she did, wandering the cool halls of her home. She wanted a last glimpse at her life, as it had been and as it was now. The thought of death terrified her, and so she refused to give it life. She focused on the little things; the sound of her nephew's soft snoring, and even louder was Melina's.

She found her brother leaning over an iron-rail terrace. She joined him, wrapping her shawl tighter around her body to block out the night air.

Aron frowned when he saw her. He looked so much older than he truly was; stubble lined his jaw and there were bags beneath his eyes. "You should not be up," he told her, none-too-kindly.

"Neither should you," she retorted. Lightheaded, she leaned on his shoulder and closed her eyes. "I cannot sleep; I dreamt of a woman dying."

"Was she you?"

"No," Ashara said, "but she was brave."

Aron stroked her hair back, sighing. "I wish... I wish things had been different, Ash. I wish Arthur had never joined the Kingsguard... I wish he had never died."

"As do I," Ashara said. "Every day." _Every day I wish for something new; Jon, Alys, Ned, Arthur..._ Ashara bit her lip to hold in a sob. She met her brother's eyes. "Tell me what's been going on with you and all the rest. Tell me about Dorne, brother."

He had just returned from a visit to Sunspear, having treated with Doran Martell and his younger brother, Oberyn. Ashara had been left with Melina and Edric; a grievous three weeks which would permanently stain her memory.

"Doran Martell contemplates an alliance with Viserys Targaryen," Aron informed her. "He and his brother want vengeance for their sister, niece, and nephew. I am inclined to agree with them, and yet I asked them to hold off; in Essos they call Viserys the Beggar King; the Mad King Come Again. I would not wish for my home to fall into the hands of madness."

"Jon is not mad," she told him. "He will give them vengeance."

"And yet we cannot tell them," Aron said firmly; sadly. It had been three years since she had let him in on the secret of Jon's true mother and father. He had been a protector ever since. A trusted advisor. "They will only use Jon in their games. A pawn is all he'll become."

Ashara nodded. "He is so much more than that," she said quietly. "He is a dragon, a wolf, a star..."

Aron kissed her brow. "Rest, my sister."

* * *

The next morning, the Maester came by to assist her.

He filled her bath, and had a handmaiden come to wash her hair and body. While the young Myrish girl worked, another stripped Ashara's bed and laid out clean linens. Justyn, meanwhile, worked with his medicines; stirring and mixing and grinding things down with his mortar and pestle.

He spilled the blue powder into her milk and stirred it with the firm instruction to drink. Ashara did. It made her feel woozy, but more calm and less weak.

"My Lady," said her handmaiden, Jedia, when the Maester had left, "they say your daughter is days away from arriving."

Excitement filled Ashara, then. She felt both fearful and ecstatic at once; her daughter, her sweet Alys; who sang and danced and sniffed the flowers all day long; who wielded weapons like they were a part of her arm and rode horses like she was born on one.

"Thank you," she said to the young maiden. "If you would help me from the tub?"

Jedia did her duty; pulling Ashara from the now tepid waters and drying her off. Ashara stared at her bare body with something akin to disgust. She was frail and thin, now, her skin like paper and her hair like straw, when before it had been black silk, and her body had been full — supple skin, soft breasts, narrow hips and a glowing complexion. Was it ageing or this sickness which took her beauty from her?

Daena helped Ashara step into a slip. It covered her ill body. Together they walked Ashara to the bed.

Her head was pounding by the time the covers were pulled up. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. _Soon_ , she thought. _Soon my daughter will come back to me. Soon I will be free._

* * *

Aron came to see her later, rousing her from her dreams.

"Sister," he said calmly. "Talk to me."

"What can I say?" Ashara asked him. "I lay here, growing weaker by the second. It is you who should be telling me tales. What business with Starfall? With Westeros? I feel so secluded, Aron."

"Jon Arryn is dead, this you know," Aron said, "but the King means to appoint Eddard Stark his Hand." He allowed her to digest that. She felt only sick. "The Queen and all the rest have journeyed north. There is only one explanation for such an act."

"Two, Aron," Ashara shifted, "and one of them being a betrothal."

"Perhaps both will be done," Aron shrugged. "It means naught to us."

"Nonetheless I worry for the safety of my son," Ashara confessed. She took her brother's hand. "Jon is in a pit of stags and lions, all prideful where he is but alone — were it not for Ned. What if the King finds out? He would have Jon executed on the spot."

Aron sighed. "Lord Stark would never allow that to happen," he said. "He is an honourable man, but he keeps the secret with us. I am sure he would rather die than tell a single soul."

"He will keep his promise," Ashara nodded, a little more sure.

"I want to send Edric to Blackhaven, to squire for Lord Dondarrion," Aron told her. "I feel I have slighted Beric, needless he feels no anger; he has assured me of that many times. A good man. He understood the necessity of peace between Dorne and the Reach — what little we made. It would have been better for Willas to marry Arianne."

"Mace is a fool, but he knows Doran Martell would never consent to have his daughter married off to a Tyrell," Ashara said. "Likely he is saving his daughter for Viserys Targaryen."

Aron smiled ruefully. "It would seem that, though your body is weak, your mind was spared of this sickness, sweet sister."

Ashara tried to laugh, but her lungs felt far too tight. "Yes," she sighed. "Aron... Should Ned accept the position as Hand, I know my daughter will want to see him. I will not have the strength to refuse her. You must promise me she will not enter the pit of snakes and traitors that is King's Landing."

"Consider it done," Aron said. He pushed back her dry hair with his hand, worried, she could tell. "You remind me of mother, sometimes."

Ashara looked away. "How so?"

"Your confidence, I suppose," Aron studied her. "The way she held herself... So strong and yet graceful all at once. She did not need beauty nor a husband; only her dignity — and yet she had what she had all the same."

"And if her dignity had been stripped away from her?" Ashara asked tearfully. "If she lay dying in a bed, a shadow of what she was before? Would you have loved her still? Would you have forgiven her for letting sickness take her? Would you have... Have stayed with her in her last moments?"

Aron's look turned from surprise to sympathy. "Oh, Ash," he cupped her cheek. "They love you. You must know that. Alys writes to me often concerning you; your happiness, your welfare... Seven hells, she is coming here, now! And Jon... Jon is so far away, but do you not hear him calling for you in your heart? Sometimes I hear him calling for me; howling like a wolf — missing his home. They will not resent you, sister."

She curled up on her side and sobbed into the silky white sheets. Her little babes, so sweet and good and strong, how she needed them, then.

Aron departed with a kiss on her cheek.

* * *

 _In the night, the ghost grass swayed with southron winds._

 _Dany watched it, tucked under a horsehair blanket with Drogo at her back. She was still sore and bloody from their lovemaking, if you could call it that, but by now it has lessened considerably. She felt a little better. A little stronger._

 _Dany rolled onto her back, to avoid the hardness of her new husband's groin. The sky above her was full of the brightest stars. It looked so peaceful, up there. She wondered, suddenly, if her mother was watching her. Was she ashamed of Dany for marrying a savage horse lord? Did she resent her for having wanted him, in that moment? Did she hate Dany for not putting the Iron Throne before all else, as Viserys did?_

 _In that moment she felt so alone; so without guidance. Not that her father would have been, or Viserys or even her long dead mother... She had no one. No one but this foreign Dothraki who had no use for her but sons. Would she give him sons, or only daughters? If she did not, would he slay her as she slept?_

 _Dany wiped away her tears, silver and hot. She wished that one of her older brothers had survived past infancy, so that they might have taken this burden from her and her brother. If one of them had, would Viserys still be as mad? Would there even be a dragon to avoid waking?_

 _And yet... When a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin, they say; madness or sanity. Would Dany succumb to madness eventually, as her father had? Many recounted him as kind and strong in his youth, and yet in the end he had burned the usurper's dogs, or some of them at least, and had been stabbed in the back by one of his own guard._

 _She hated Ser Jaime Lannsiter. She hated Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark and Tywin Lannister. She hated them all. She wanted them all dead. She wanted to watch them burn; watch their skin blacken and peel away from their bones for what they had done to her._

 _Drogo woke, then. He made to turn Dany over, to take her from behind. She had seen dogs do it that way. The idea frightened her. "No," she said quietly, grabbing his hand. She tried to be gentle. "No, please."_

 _"No?"_

 _"No," Dany nodded. She looked up at him, his long dark hair and eyes to match. She cupped his cheek, stroking back some of his hair. The action seemed to shock him, but it was not unusual to her; she had done the same thing to Viserys a thousand times. He always smiled._

 _"I could tell you a story," she said. "I know you don't understand me, and that stories are meant for children... But you hardly know me. I could tell you..."_

 _He relaxed, and sat back, waiting._

 _Dany took a deep breath. "Once, long ago, a man named Aegon was borne on a stone named for dragons. It was there that he grew up and became a wishful King. He was only a young boy — barely a man grown — when he mounted his dragon; Balerion the Black Dread, and soared over the skies of Westeros with his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys. Together they conquered the Seven Kingdoms and united them as one._

 _"Generations later, Rhaella and Aerys were born to King Jaehaerys Targaryen. Together they had eight children, but only three survived." Dany blinked, realising that she was crying._

 _"Rhaegar was a gallant young man. He married Elia Martell of Dorne and, though she was but sickly, brought two children into this world; Aegon and Rhaenys, named for their ancestors. But then, one fateful day there was held a tourney at a castle called Harrenhal. On that day, Rhaegar named not his own wife Elia as Queen of Love and Beauty, but instead Lyanna Stark, daughter of Rickard and Lyarra Stark._

 _"Rhaegar had fallen in love with this woman, you see, and since his wife could no longer bear him any children, he took Lyanna away and married her in secret. Her family demanded they get their winter rose back, and so Aerys, mad with rage, had Brandon Stark — brother to Lyanna — strangled before his own father. He then burned Rickard alive." She drew in a sharp breath. As she spoke, she felt how unjust it was, how Ned Stark might have felt to be so alone, to lose so many so quickly, and so he had held onto the only person that might get his sister back. She hated him a little less, then._

 _"Rhaegar was slain in battle by Robert Baratheon," Dany told her husband, tracing patterns on his painted chest. "He defended his princess to his last days, but Robert still lusted for the northern beauty. His allies killed King Aerys, and he took the Throne for himself. The Usurper."_

 _She watched a tear trickle down Drogo's copper skin. Oddly, he did not mind. She was not crying because of him, now, but because of the home and family she had lost and never known. "Meanwhile, Rhaella stayed on Dragonstone, away from battle and death with her son Viserys. She died birthing a daughter; Daenerys. Me."_

 _Dany looked up at Drogo once again, and she saw that his eyes were sad. Though he could not understand her words, he understood her tears and loss. "The two children were left alone," she told him. "To find peace in a world that wished them dead. Dany was married off to a man named Khal Drogo, who took her as his wife and listened to her tale with patience and love."_

 _With that, Dany leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips. They had not kissed at their wedding, as was Westerosi fashion, nor had they kissed at their bedding, which was odd to Dany._

 _She had only kissed Viserys, before, the day she had flowered. That day he had taken her in his arms and aggressively pushed his lips to her own, leaving bruises on her skin. She had let it happen; let his tongue snake between her lips, for fear of waking the dragon._

 _This kiss was different; warm and true. It was full of something akin to love. And sadness, as well. Her tears brushed his cheeks and her tongue played with his own in a gentle, soft fashion._

 _When she pulled away, Drogo's cheeks had darkened. Had he ever been kissed before, she wondered?_

* * *

Ashara awoke quickly, cheeks wet though her eyes were dry.

It was not yet dawn. Ashara lay there, shivering, as the last memory of warmth left her. It was not cold, she knew, and yet she was freezing. There was something about the air which was settling; it was almost tangible; hanging like a net waiting to catch her. But she was not ready. She knew, for whatever reason, that there was something to hold onto. Something to wait for... but she could not quite place what it was.

Above her, something flashed against the low hanging moonbeams. Dark fabric obscured her vision momentarily. Something cool trickled down her threat, put there by an unclear hand. She had no words or energy to protest.

Then they were gone. Hours passed. Slowly, Ashara no longer felt any pain. She no longer felt weak. She no longer felt anything but an aching sharpness in her heart. She knew that she had to hold on... but could she?

No. Rhaella had not been able to. Lyanna had not been able to. They had been brave; she had felt that through their hearts.

She shuddered, lips parting for a last breath, purple eyes wide as she stared at the canopy above her.

She could almost see Ned... She could almost see his smile...

* * *

 **AN: I... I'm sorry.**


	11. Robert I

TWELVE : ROBERT (I)

The woman he had falsely known for so long glared up at him, golden hair ruffled and green eyes blazing.

He might have loved her, in another life; one where his sweet Lyanna had never even existed. One where he had never seen her face; cold as frozen steel but bright beneath that, like the sun. But such a thought filled him with sadness, with longing, and hate. And so he paced around his lion wife, waiting for some form of an explanation.

"The children," Ned said from the corner of the cell. "Are they all Jaime's?"

They waited, but not for long. A smug smile spread over Cersei's face. "Yes, thank the gods for it," she said quietly. "Were it not for my brother I would have taken my life long ago—"

"A shame you didn't," Robert growled.

Ned shot him a warning look, but Robert did not care to listen; he was the king, gods curse him, and this whore was his wife. Ned was but a frozen fool who had lived with snow in his ears for too long. "You bitch," he told Cersei. "I could have had so much more than you..."

 _I could have had her; my northern beauty. My sweet Lyanna. I cannot even remember her true face. I cannot remember the feel of her skin against my own, but I know that it was cold as ice._ "Would you take her now, even as a corpse?"

Robert winced. It was too harsh a word for his sweet, soft Lyanna; always smiling, always gentle around her family, and warm at least to him. Be could not remember the instances in which she extended a hand of kindness to him; there was only a memory of a bright young thing, pretty as all else, beaming up at he and Ned as they approached the gates of Winterfell.

Ned, from his corner, took a step forward. He looked much as he had before, then; lean and strong and fierce, the exact opposite of Lyanna, who's skin had been pale like milk and eyes grey and bright. Oh, how he missed her.

"Even in death, you protect her," Cersei observed, tilting her head. Her ratty hair hung around her in strings from the days she had been housed in this cell, which was dark and dank and ripe with the smell of piss. Her brother was in one a floor below, and the Imp in the one across from her. "How foolish you are, Lord Stark."

"Why am I a fool?" Ned demanded. His voice shook. "For loving my sister? For wishing to honour her memory?"

"The bitch is dead, you—"

Robert reached out and struck her, clear across the cheek. He did not care if it was not kingly. He did not care if it was dishonourable. He only cared for Lyanna. "You little wench," he growled down at Cersei. "You _shit_!"

"She was a corpse and I was a living girl and you loved her more than me!" Cersei wailed. A welt was growing on the side of her face. Robert stepped back, satisfied.

"Oh, honestly, sweet sister," Tyrion leaned forward through the bars of his cell, "you needn't be so dramatic." The little man grinned up at Robert and Ned. "My sister has a tendency to hold grudges. Forgive her. I do, though she has never forgiven me for the death of our mother."

"You're a funny man, aren't you?" Cersei hissed. "A very funny man, oh yes... But none of your jokes will ever match the first, will they? When you tore our mother apart on your way out of her? How I wish you could have seen her body. How I wish you could have lived with the torment of wondering; what does Mama look like now? Has she begun to bloat? Has her skin peeled back from her teeth?"

Tyrion only snorted carelessly. "How imaginative," he muttered, turning around to lean against the rusted iron bars. "I had never known you to be so, sister."

Cersei huffed. Robert felt no sympathy for her, nor anything akin to love. He never had. Cersei had always been righteous, prideful and vain. Not like Lyanna. Never like Lyanna. He hated her because of it.

"Remind me, Lord Stark, Your Grace," Tyrion faced them again, "why am I in this cell? What crime have I committed?"

Ned and Robert eyed him. "You shielded me from the truth, Imp," Robert said. "You told a great many lies."

"Alas, if only that were true," Tyrion grinned. "I had my suspicions, yes, but does one bring suspicions to a King? Especially when they concern his wife and children? No, I'd rather keep my head, I thank you for it."

"You will face the judgement of your father, once he arrives," Ned said.

"I am sure he will be merciful."

With that, Tyrion Lannister slipped out of sight, into the darkness of his iron cell. Robert turned back to Ned and Cersei. "You bore bastards and lied to me about it, you lay with your own brother outside the marriage bed. You connived, schemed, and told falsehoods. For that, I will have no mercy."

His fury was great as he swept out of the jailhouse, footsteps booming against the damp ground and then becoming muffled when they reached the snow. The shadows on the walls were thick and inky; they seemed to stretch, as though groping for light to swallow. Ned followed, ordering one of his guards to lock it up after them. "What of the children?" Ned called.

They ascended the slippery, cold stone steps up to the courtyard. Robert glanced at his old friend. Ned had instructed Robert to be gentle with the Lannister bastards until Cersei confirmed the truth. Finally they had their answer, after a week of beating and questioning on Robert's orders. Ned had been against it all. _If you will commit such folly, let it not be under my roof,_ he had said, _where my children sleep - where my people dwell._

Robert had done it anyway, for what could Ned do? Robert was king, and Ned was but a lord under his command. Ah, but perhaps that was arrogant of him. Winterfell belonged to Ned, after all; the man had earned it, and lost much on the way. He at least deserved to know of Robert's plans for the bastards.

"I suppose I could spare their lives," Robert conceded, for once thinking on Ned's words. "But I will never look upon them again. Send the oldest to the Wall."

Ned looked uneasy, but he nodded. "And the remaining Lannisters of your court? Surely they were plentiful; I know that Tywin would have done what he could to properly stake his position within King's Landing."

"Bloody pests," Robert grunted in affirmation. "Her cousin, Lancel, is my squire. Gods, they were all around me, Ned, and I did not even know it." He turned to his old friend, pleading for some reasoning.

Ned ducked his head. "I do not believe they all meant you harm. They were not all conspirators in this, of that I am certain. Perhaps Lancel might be spared? From what I know, the lad is young-"

"Young, and incompetent. Not likely to improve, either. I would remove him from his position."

Ned raised a brow. "And replace him with whom?"

At that, Robert was struck with a sudden, brilliant thought. "Someone loyal to me. Come, Ned. I'll have the whore's head on a spike by nightfall," Robert said flatly.

Ned's eyes widened. Robert almost hit him for that, but the frozen fool spoke before he could. "Your Grace," he said, "Tywin Lannister has already departed from Casterly Rock—"

"I care not," Robert spat. "I will take her head myself, for I am king and my word is law." With that he walked away from his old friend.

* * *

The wench was beginning to annoy him, Robert realised. And so he finished quickly, pushing her off of him, exhausted. "Leave," he ordered, shortly. She gathered her skirts and torn corset and scampered out, letting Robert be alone with his thoughts.

He would rid himself of the Lannister cunt before nightfall, he had promised himself of that. And, if the mood struck him, Jaime Lannister as well. The Imp... That was another matter. Robert was not sure of his guilt.

Nonetheless he would keep the little beast imprisoned, as a ward of sorts against Tywin Lannister. That ought to keep the man in line.

Robert rolled out of bed and dressed, on his own. He had no mind for bloody Lancel Lannister dressing him - the lad would be dismissed and out of sight by nightfall. Slowly he slipped into his leathers and strapped a fur coat around his breast, fingers fumbling with the bronze clips.

The halls of Winterfell were vacant, which suited his mood; if Robert were happy, he would have preferred to have seen children laughing and girls giggling, to have Ned by his side. Now he wanted only to be alone on his solitary march.

In the courtyard, Ned was straddled and awaiting him. His sons Jon and Robb were at his side, both looking grim at the business that would be done.

"Your Grace," Ned spoke, "I would advise you one final time not to be rash—"

"Damn your rationality, Ned," Robert growled, furious. It was the Targaryen babes all over again. He sighed heavily and mounted his destrier, a big black thing with hooves as big as two hands side by side.

The gates opened at an agonisingly slow pace. Robert took the time to examine their party; there was he, Ned, his heir, ward, and bastard, a horse-drawn cage which held Cersei and Jamie, and a total of twenty guards. Robert ordered for the number to be doubled.

Ned looked in agony. "Your Grace, surely there is no need—"

"There is every need!" Robert spat. "I'm the bloody _king_ , Ned! I need proper protection! And do you not thing it would suit us to have more hands should the bitch and her shit escape?"

Ned chewed his lip, as he had done many a time when they were young, and then bowed his head. "Your Grace," he finally spoke, "if this is what you must do, then I will have no part in it. Nor will my men." He turned to a thin, dark man beside him. "Jory, round up the soldiers and disperse."

Robert gaped. "Ned! You will come if I order it! I will not do this alone!" He could not.

The warden of the north shook his head sadly. "I am sorry, Your Grace, but I cannot." He slipped from his horse and handed it off to a squire. Robert felt the beginnings of anger taking root in his gut; coiling and twisting. "You would defy my orders?"

There was a moment of silence, in which Ned stared up at Robert like a wolf considering his prey. Robert did not like the feeling; those cold eyes, so like Lyanna's, nearly paralysed him so deeply he could scarcely breathe, much less speak. "For this, I would," his friend said at last, at least having the decency to sound regretful. "I hope that you change your mind. Robb, Theon, come with me."

Robert, outraged and insulted, yanked his reigns tightly to spin his horse around. "And you do you expect us to find the place, then?!"

"Take Jory," Ned called back, not bothering to look, which was perhaps the greatest insult of them all.

* * *

The remaining party rode out, cart bouncing, horses clopping against the cobblestone road of Winter Town. Robert did not smile or wave at these solemn faces that they passed. He did not know them, and it was not his practise to socialise with his subjects.

Robert rode ahead of them all, letting the brisk wind wash over his already ruddy face, feeling it cool him. It was peaceful, here. For a moment the anger in his heart abated. He thought only of Lyanna, of her graceful smile and wondrous grey eyes. How he missed her...

 _The throne room was silent._

 _All were quiet as Robert entered, falling to their knees or standing out of disrespect. Robert cared not. He sought only Ned, who stood over two bloodied corpses wrapped in white sheet. His face was grim. Robert wondered what was the matter._

 _"Ned!" He bellowed, spreading his arms wide. Gods, it was good to see his face. It was good to see any face that was not Rhaegar Targaryen's. Robert could still hear his ribs cracking, could still see his chest caving in; rubies and blood spilling out in all directions. If he closed his eyes he was there._

 _His friend did not smile back, nor did he return any sort of greeting. Indeed, he only looked up. "Your Grace," he said. "Kings Landing is yours."_

 _Robert winced at the formality in the tone. He waved Ned off. "It always would have been," he told him. "Now, who has died, eh?"_

 _"The Targaryen babes, Your Grace," Ned replied solemnly. He looked sick — a right thing, too; the bodies were mutilated. "Slain by the Mountain That Rides, on the orders of Tywin Lannister."_

 _Robert did not care to notice the disgust in Ned's voice, and instead turned to the man himself; Lord Tywin Lannsiter, in all of his glory; red and gold armour, a lion emblazoned on the chest, and a sword at his side. Beside him were Lords Clegane and Westerling, if Robert assumed correctly. "Congratulations are in order, then, I suppose."_

 _Ned looked horrified. "They were only children, Robert," he whispered, forgetting himself. "Surely you will not reward the man that ordered their demise?!"_

 _Robert only rolled his eyes. He stepped away from the growing pool of blood on the floor and grinned at Tywin. "Always knew you would come through in the end!"_

 _"Yes," Tywin said shortly. "Though, my services were not for nothing, Your Grace; I did, after all, win this city for you and remove any contestants to your throne."_

 _Not all of the contestants, Robert thought grimly; still remains the Targaryen whore and her welp, Viserys. "Well, if you have any suggestions?"_

 _"My daughter, Your Grace," Tywin's blank expression changed to one of absolute confidence. "The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. I would have you marry her."_

 _Robert scowled. A Lannister woman was no match for Lyanna. No one was a match for his winter beauty. No one would ever compare... "As you will it," Robert conceded grimly. "I'll marry the girl. I hope I don't have to wait long?"_

 _"No," Tywin inclined his chin. "She is flowered and ready for a bedding, I assure you."_

 _Robert nodded. "Then we will marry as soon as she arrives," he told the man. "Do not keep me expecting, Tywin."_

 _"No, Your Grace."_

 _Robert turned back to Ned. "This was a necessary business, Ned," he told his friend, who remained appalled. "These bastards—"_

 _"Children," Ned retorted. "Innocent children who did you no wrong. They only existed and so you allow the man who killed them to be rewarded. Not only that, but Elia Martell — who was slighted by her own husband. You rewarded the man that ordered her to have her children killed in front of her — to have her watch, and then be raped. And you call yourself a King?"_

 _Ned was shaking with rage, face white, and so was Robert. "How dare you?" Robert hissed, stepping forward. "You who call yourself my friend, my brother?"_

 _"Innocents," he whispered. "They were innocent."_

 _Robert shook his head. "You deal with the bodies, Lord Stark," he said. "Burn them, bury them, I care not."_

 _He turned his gaze instead to the Iron Throne; a massive thing that must have been thirty feet tall with steel jutting out in every direction. It was imposing, yes, and ugly. It was a shame he would have to climb the thing every day just to sit down._

 _And yet it was his duty._

The hills were covered in a thin layer of summer snow, as Ned had called it.

Robert dismounted, carefully, and landed on his feet with a firm thump. The grass below bent and ice crunched. Ned's man led Robert to a thick, flat stone. There were runes carved into it — the runes of winter kings, Ned had said once, back when they had been young boys in the Vale. He'd compared them to the runes of Royce when Yohn came to visit.

The Lannister twins were let out of the cage, hands and feet bound tightly with rope. Robert saw, with immense satisfaction, that their wrists were chaffed red and raw. He almost smiled. He would have, if he had not felt so dour.

Jamie was thrown against the rock first, his neck hanging over, while a guard held Cersei tightly in his arms. The woman was crying, screaming at him. "Robert!" She yelled, "Robert, please! He is my brother!"

"Your brother," asked Robert, "or your lover?"

Cersei flushed red. She struggled against the arms of her guard. "I am the Queen!" She screamed. "I demand that you release me!"

A queen she did not look, as she once had. Robert recalled the first time he had seen her; golden head covered in a net of rubies, green eyes glistening. She had admired him, then. Perhaps she had even loved him. It mattered not, for now those eyes were filled with a righteous hate. Her lips were pressed into a thin white line, wet with her tears.

Robert felt no pity for her. He felt no pain or sympathy. No regret. He felt only happiness, at the idea that her joy had finally turned to ashes in her mouth. She was not a queen, anymore. Not by his rule.

"I'll do anything," she whispered.

"You'll die."

Cersei struggled. "What of my sons?" She demanded. "My daughter?!"

"She may be spared," Robert said, "as for the boys, one will join the Watch and the other will become a ward."

Cersei seemed to relax a little. Robert wished then that he had said something different; that he had lied, just to cause her a last torment. She was not Lyanna, and she was no beauty. She was only a broken wench from the Westerlands.

Robert turned his attention to Jaime. "You are a member of the Kingsguard," he said. "Your vows are for life. They will be ending today."

Jaime Lannister made no word of protest. Robert went on. "I, King Robert of the House Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die."

He drew his sword from it's sheath. The metal made a sharp hissing sound that brought a wail from Cersei's lips.

"No! You can't!" She sobbed. "STOP IT! I WILL DESTROY YOU, I SWEAR! I WILL TEAR YOU APART!"

She managed to push herself out of the arms of the guard holding her, who stumbled back, startled. Robert held the sword, and, just before the woman could reach her lover — her brother — he swung downward.

Blood sprayed over the snow.

Robert observed it, feeling little joy suddenly.

Cersei curled into a ball and cried, looking weaker than Robert had ever seen her. Her breath came out in white puffs of air and her torn dress soaked up water and blood. He watched her, and he felt the soreness of his arms.

"Let her mourn," he said. "We will kill her later."

Ned's man, Jory, looked to Robert, then. He saw that the guard was angry; angry and disappointed. Robert gave him a short nod, for he could not bring himself to care, he felt so ill. There was a stickiness to the air, now, which made it hard to breathe. An unnatural warmth.

Robert mounted his horse and rode away.

* * *

 **A.N.: Leave a review, please, on your thoughts regarding this chapter. I thought it was rather fun to write, given I don't often delve into the depths of Robert's mind, so it was an eye-opening experience for me. Also, I wouldn't expect new chapters to be posted less than seven days apart, perhaps more.**

 **And another note: Ashara Dayne is dead. A few of you reviewed saying that you had hopes she would survive, or reunite with Jon, etc., but unfortunately this won't be the case. She's gone, and I do apologise if that wasn't made clear - however, I think most of you gathered it. And I apologise for killing her off, as well! It is necessary for the development of the story, which will all be made clear in due time :)**

 **AN 2: Ned "didn't support" Robert here because he is a man of mercy, and though justice needed to be served, he didn't support Robert and he still won't because doing so would majorly put both himself and his people at risk. Please do remember that this is an AU story, so I reserve the right to change or modify the way a certain character would react or preform in any given situation, and that Ned is a man who, above all else, regards honour and family at the highest. Nothing is more important to him, and putting his family at risk against the wrath of renowned warlord Tywin Lannister is not something he is willing to do. Ned isn't perfect, he doesn't always make the wisest decisions, but I remain sure here that this is what Ned would have done. He wouldn't have taken his children out to watch a woman get murdered. And though he is advising against this, he isn't NOT supporting it. So please, don't freak out, or be disappointed in me. This is my story, and if you don't like where it's headed, you are of no obligation to continue reading.**

 **AN 3: Updated, because of Lancel Lannister, whom I mistakenly threw in, having forgotten his significance.**

 **Anyway, follow and favourite and all of that fun stuff!**

 **Much love xx**


	12. Aron I

TWELVE : ARON (I)

The wheelhouse clapped against the limestone ground, as one with the horses that drew it.

The sound might have been music to Aron's ears, had his heart not been so heavy with grief and loss. The Gods had taken his sister. His sweet Ashara, so lively and honest... She had died alone. He could still see her as he had found her; empty eyes, pale hands bloody and clawing at her sheets, lips as white as the rest of her skin...

Aron blinked, holding back tears. He forced a smile to his face as he watched the wheelhouse come to a halt. It was a beautiful thing; carved of weirwood and elm, painted with the colours of houses Dayne and Tyrell.

The first one out was Allyria.

She had grown into a comely young woman; her hair was as Ashara and their Mother's had been, back when they had been living and lovely. Her eyes, so bright and purple, fell upon his form and widened. She rushed across the courtyard, pulling her skirts up so that she would not trip, and threw herself into his arms.

Aron stumbled back, but still he caught her and held her fast. His sweet sister. The only one he had left and she did not even share his name any longer.

"You got taller," he whispered in her ear.

Allyria pulled back, smiling. It was then that he saw how worried she was, likely for the sister she was unaware had passed. He spotted the paleness to her, and the frown that came as quick as her smile left.

Aron pushed her hair back from her shoulders. It had been tied in some Tyrell fashion, which brought a feeling of resentment to him. He muffled it down though and kissed her cheeks. "It is wonderful to have you home."

"Yes," she said. "It is just as wondrous to be back."

As she studied the castle and greeted Melina, whom had always had a soft spot for her, Aron watched as the wheelhouse dipped with the weight of another exiting body.

Alysanne was a vision; she looked just like her mother, if not for those grey eyes and that grim frown. It softened when she saw him, but she did not embrace Aron as he wished she would; she did not remember him as he did, her.

She was not tame, he could tell immediately; she wore riding leathers, and her boots were splattered with dirt. She had a bow and quiver slung across her back as well as a longsword strapped to her side, tied to a belt of silver.

Behind her stood two guards. One was tall and lean, with brown hair on the longer and darker side, and bright green eyes. He was smirking with leisure. Then there was Jon Fossoway, whom Aron recognised from Alysanne's last visit two years before. The man looked as genial as ever, with a freshly trimmed dark beard to rival the one on his companion's face, and cropped black hair.

The wheelhouse was led away. Aron stepped forward and kissed his niece's cheeks. "How is my mother?" Was the first question that slipped past her lips, as pink as Ashara's had been.

Aron was not sure what to tell her. He did not want to catch her or Allyria unawares, but thankfully the arrival of two more little girls spared him. Allyria's daughters; Maeryla and Jystine. They looked little like their mother, with brown curly hair and blue eyes — though the hue was a shade of Dayne, for which he was thankful.

"Girls," Allyria stepped forward, cradling the head of the younger one, whom Aron knew to be only two years of age. "This is your uncle, Aron. He is Lord of Starfall and a friend to us."

Something had changed in her voice, as with Alysanne's. It was softer, more calm, like water rushing over a river. They did not bear the accent of Dorne any longer. Aron suddenly felt completely alone; Ashara was dead, and his only living family had converted to the ways of the south.

"Come," he said, with a heavy heart. "I... we should be away from prying eyes."

They knew, then; he could see the changes in their faces. Both turned to stone. Aron wondered if their hearts were as broken as his own.

* * *

Her body was covered in a purple shroud, embroidered with white stars.

Melina had done the work herself, ridden with guilt for the way she had treated Ashara. None of them had thought she would die; sickness was sickness, and sickness passed. But something at the back of Aron's mind had nagged him ever since. Some urgent thing that could not make its way through the clouds of grief.

 _She bled,_ whispered something that could not quite reach, like ghost hands clawing from the depths of the forgotten. _She slit her own wrists. Unhappiness... but why?_

Allyria fell to her knees beside him, covering her mouth with a pale hand as tears streamed down her cheeks. Aron made to console her, and would have if she had not pulled herself away. He watched as she sobbed; the broken sounds filling the air and deepening the cracks in his heart.

He turned to Alys.

The young maiden was staring at the shroud, at the mass that was her mother. Her face was blank. He did not know if she was in shock, or even upset. She had barely known Ashara in these last years, after all... But the woman had been her mother, still.

"Alys?"

"Do not, please," she whispered. He saw the first traces of a tear, but quickly it was gone. "I must take my leave."

She slipped from the room at a run, hair flying behind her. Aron felt weakened. He hesitantly knelt down bedside Allyria and wrapped his arms around her. "You are all I have left, now," he said. "You are my sister. I am going to protect you."

"You could not protect her," Allyria retorted harshly, with eyes of steel.

"She was sick," Aron retorted. He shoved down his offence for he knew that she was grieving. "She might have died anyway. I was giving her the best care I could under the sudden circumstances. You know I would not have—"

"But I do not know," Allyria interrupted, wiping her red cheeks and nose. "I do not know you, Aron."

With that she stood and swept from the room, leaving him with a shrouded corpse which he prayed to every god he knew of to give life once more.

* * *

Alys entered his solar some time later, clutching a necklace of some sorts. She was saddened of eye and pale of face, though not flushed or pink as he had expected her to be from crying.

Had she not, yet?

Concerned, Aron bid her to sit across from him. He poured them both a chalice of wine into polished golden cups, which had been his fathers and grandfather's, and so on and so forth — Aron had been led to believe that they were a gift from Aegon the Conquerer himself, which had been given to his son, and that son's mistress, until they had ended up in the hands of Aenor Dayne of Starfall.

"How are you?" Aron asked her, furrowing his brow as he passed the wine.

Alys sniffed, though not haughtily. "I... Had expected to find her alive. I wanted to have a last conversation with her... To tell her how much I missed her. I suppose it is hard for me to grasp that I will not be able to." Alys swallowed thickly. "But my greatest worry is Jon."

Aron had not expected that. How could she think of him at this time? But then, he supposed, it was to be expected; the boy was her brother; her closest living relative — at least to her own knowledge. That brought a sick feeling of apprehension; the realisation that he would be the one to tell her the truth. Who else could? Ned Stark was in the north, leagues away, which left Aron the sole bearer of the secret which may have killed Ashara. "Jon?"

Alys nodded. "Yes," she frowned delicately, as she had likely been taught in the Reach. "He is all the way in the North, with no one to comfort him in the news of our mother's passing."

"I am sure if he takes it as well as you have, he will fair just fine." Aron told her. He tried to be gentle with his words, but still her sharp gaze locked onto his with a reverence he would have previously thought impossible.

"I am not taking it well," she replied shakily, eyes misting. "I am _heartbroken._ I wanted to see my mother, I wanted to kiss her one last time and tell her that all would be well! Instead I must write to my brother to inform him of her death! Do you think that is something I want to do? Do you think I enjoy the concept?"

Aron opened his mouth to speak, but she only slammed her hand down on the desk. "I am your niece, I was her daughter — I lost her too. Do not think for one moment that I am _fine_ , uncle!"

"I never would have..." Aron shook his head in absolute despair, not wanting to see her cry. Perhaps he was too much of a craven. "I am sorry. Forgive me?"

She nodded, leaning back and wiping her tears with a practised hand. "Tell me about her last days," she ordered.

Aron bit his lip. What was there to say? "She was weak, Alys," he said slowly, "not weak enough for death, but I suppose she must have... Worsened some time in the night. Her skin was like paper, and... The gods took her out of mercy, sweet niece." He would not tell her what she had done to herself. He would not tell her of the gaping slits across her wrists from which her life's blood had spilt. How could he do such a thing to her? He could barely comprehend it himself.

Alys chewed her lip. She seemed to be contemplating something, and so Aron waited in silence for her to speak. "Did she have anyone that could have done this to her? Anyone that wished her to die? I only ask because it... Is not common for someone to die so suddenly. Not from what I know, at the least."

Aron nodded with measured understanding. "No one that I can think of," he said quietly, swirling his wine. "My wife holds a grudge for the — _disgrace_ — my sister brought upon House Dayne." Aron paused, trying to convey how these words were not his own. He laced his fingers together. "She regrets this, I know; these past nights she has done naught but weep."

Alys considered that; she bit down so hard on her lip that Aron saw beads of blood surface. She sucked it away. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out a hand. She took it, holding on firmly. It felt like a promise.

"We will solve this, Alysanne," he told her, making good on his word. "But first..."

"But first, what?" Alys frowned.

Aron cleared his throat. "Your mother asked a service of me which involves convincing you not to journey to Kings Landing, should your Father truly travel south to become the King's Hand. She worries for your safety in such a place."

"I can take care of myself," Alys said impatiently, rising from her chair and pacing across the tiled floor. Her feet made no sound. "I have been training, Uncle; with swords, with a bow—"

"Weapons will be of no use against a cunning mind, Alysanne," he interrupted swiftly, downing the last of his wine. It made his head spin.

"Are you... Where do you think I have been these last years?" His niece scoffed. "Do you believe I have learned nothing during my time amongst the ambitious flowers of the south? Do you imagine I merely sat around with a servant fanning me, not bothering to _know_? To _observe_?"

"No," Aron stood sharply. He clasped his hands behind his back. "But as of now, you have yet to prove to me any skills of which you have acquired in Highgarden. And since you have not, you will stay here. And, even if you ever do, you will remain with me."

Alysanne took a step back. "You mean... I am not going back to Highgarden?"

Aron had made the decision the night before. Ashara wanted her daughter safe, and Alys would be safe with him. He could not guarantee her wellbeing in some far off place like King's Landing or the Reach. The only other place he imagined he might not worry was the North, with her brother Jon. But then again, Aron had not heard from his nephew in months.

"You will not," he said firmly.

To his immense surprise, Alysanne rushed across the room and threw herself into his arms. Aron caught her, though he did not understand. "Alys—"

"I do not want to be Margaery Tyrell's handmaiden anymore," she whispered. "I love her dearly, do not mistake me, and Highgarden has become a home... But I cannot go back. I cannot spend any more time away from my true family. I realised today what I was missing, Uncle."

She pulled back, and Aron saw that her eyes were filled with silver tears. He squeezed her hand. "I promise I will keep you safe with me."

Alys nodded. She slowly detangled herself from his grasp and wiped her cheeks dry. "Thank you, Uncle," she said softy.

"Alys..." He drew in a sharp breath, staring down at their still intertwined fingers, "you are more like your mother than you could ever realise. It is more than your looks, sweet niece, it is your very nature."

"Thank you for your kind words," she smiled. "I want to rest, now."

She sounded like a child then; for a moment humility and sadness had re-grasped her and turned her into the little girl she had once been. She looked so small and weak. Aron wanted nothing more than to help her through her pain but he did not know how.

* * *

Edric was perched on the sill of his window, chin drawn up to his knee as he observed the river rushing below.

Aron cleared his throat, not wanting to be imposing. But Edric smiled slightly. It was a tainted smile; ruined with grief and pain and loss, not unlike Aron's own. "You can sit," said his son, patting the spot beside him.

Aron did. They settled into a comfortable silence, before Edric spoke again. "You mean to send me to Lord Dondarrion, to squire for him," his son proclaimed.

"I do."

Edric nodded. He looked away very quickly, for there were tears in his eyes which he obviously wanted to hide. But Aron would not have that; he was not a man to have feelings hidden for the sake of false strength.

"Edric, speak to me." Aron gripped his son under the chin so that their eyes would meet. "I am your Father, I only want to help."

His son was chewing his cheek again, he just knew it. Edric glanced down at his visible foot with a blush. "You have kept me at a distance for many years," he said quietly. "Sending me to Sunspear with Mother and other such places... And now you send me to the Stormlands, away from my home and my family, though I am your heir. Would it not be wise to keep me at your side? To teach me?"

"You are young, yet, Ed," Aron said, cupping the back of his son's pale head. "You have much to learn, and I want you to be strong, though it may not be your strength. I want you to be brave though you may not have the courage, and cunning though you may not have the intelligence. Do you understand?"

Ed considered. "You want these things for me... For my well-being... But you will not be disappointed if I fail?"

"Precisely," Aron nodded, "though I would not call it _failure_ , nor a lack of heart or wit. Merely... Edric, you must understand that every person is born with limitations; things that bind them and keep them human. No man or woman can be perfect. Everyone must be flawed so that we may live in humility and simple-minded admiration."

His son absorbed that. "Father..." He chewed his cheek. "The existence of concern for a well-being implies some form of care, does it not?"

Was he truly asking this? Did he truly not know? "Oh, Gods, Ed..."

Abruptly, Ed rose, slipping out of Aron's grasp with ease. He straightened his jerkin and nodded. "I'm sorry for having caused you any discomfort," he said, crossing the sunroom. "I will continue packing and—"

"No, Ed, come back." His voice sounded pathetic and broken even to his own ears, but for the first time in many years Aron did not try to mask it. He had just lost his sister, and now he was going to lose his son as well. Such a thing would not happen in terms of bitterness and misunderstanding.

His son paused with his hand on the knob of the door. In this light he looked almost angelic; a symbol of pure goodness. A deity of innocence.

Ed turned. He was crying.

Aron pushed away from the sill and grasped his son by the shoulders, pulling him into a bone-breaking embrace. Edric sobbed, burying his little face in the crook of Aron's neck and clinging to his tunic with a reverence for the gods to uphold. "Oh, my sweet boy," Aron whispered. "How could you not know? How could you not know how precious you are to me?"

He felt ashamed. Had he not shown it well enough? Had he not been there enough? No, he supposed not, for there was a reason for every little belief in a person's mind and Edric was believing this now.

Aron drew his son down and held him like he had done when he was a newborn babe, and a child after that. "I do not want to part from you," he said. "I want you with me for always, you must understand that... But it cannot be."

Edric still held on, as though he could change it with the action of never letting go. "What if I miss you?"

"Write to me."

"And what if you miss me?"

"I will write as well," Aron assured him, wiping away those tears of yearning. One day, they might be crying of happiness; a shared joy of seeing one another again. Not the heaviness of parting ways but the lightness of a renewed bond.

"Sweet Edric," Aron kissed his brow. "You will be with me forever. In my heart and in my mind. I would do anything for you, and though you may not understand it now... I am doing just that as we speak."

Edric nodded, wise little thing he was. "I love you, Father," he said tremulously, as though afraid to speak the words.

"And I you," Aron said. Of course he did. He always would, no matter the mistake or the change, for he knew that even then they would barely exist; Edric was a good boy, despite being raised by such a traditional mother and an absent father. Strong already. Gods, he would thrive.

But that was for him to discover on his own.

* * *

 **AN: Writing that scene made me cry. Edric is a Spock/Neville hybrid. Fite me.**

 **But in all seriousness, I wanted to expand upon Edric's character - what he might have been like before the war; young, vulnerable, and perhaps a bit neglected by his both parents. Normally, in such a universe, that's a pretty common thing and I think most kids would kind of expect it a bit (busy parents, duties, possible nepotism among siblings and whatnot), with the exception of the Starks - but lil Ed has seen how Ashara treats and adores Alys, and so he knows that it's possible to love someone and also be attentive toward them.**

 **As far as Alys's behaviour here goes, it's all part of the grieving process. I'm trying to be as realistic as possible, here, so obviously she's not just going to have a cry and get over it. (Also, if you haven't picked up on it, she's got bipolar disorder) I think it's very important to represent how diverse grieving can be. It doesn't always happen the same. In her case, she's gone a bit mad.**

 **Reviews give me life! Much love xx**


	13. Ned III

THIRTEEN: NED (III)

The children had grown solemn.

Each of them had their own reasons, of course, and Ned prided himself on solving each and every one of them. For Robb, it had been the death he had so nearly witnessed (and heard plenty about), and the shattering of the view he possessed over his king — not to mention the realisation that they inevitably shared; war was on the horizon, and there was naught they could do to stop it.

For Sansa, it was not only the execution of the queen and what she had discovered of Ser Jamie and Cersei, but also her anger at Ned for allowing it to happen and her disbelief at what she had been told. Her head was full of tales of knights and princesses, a fact which Ned had shamefully allowed to go on for far too long a time.

He would have to speak with both of them.

Bran was deeply troubled because of all of it, given what a depth-full soul he possessed, as well as his mother's heavy scolding for disobeying Robb. Bran bore Robb no ill will, surprisingly. Ned suspected he felt only humiliated. And Arya was angry because Jon was.

And Jon... Gods, it was beyond Ned's comprehension. He had answers to all of _his_ children, but Lyanna's was a mystery to him as he had been for many years and, Ned suspected, always would be.

Unfortunately and fortunately, he discovered the answer from a very hesitant and concerned Robb, whom Ned had cornered after supper one night. Robb had told him, rather regretfully, that Jon's mother was ill and that was why he had become such a recluse.

"Probably," Robb had added afterward, avoiding eye-contact. "But then there's the matter that we're nearing on his nameday. And with his nameday comes Alys'. You know how withdrawn he gets this time of year, Father."

Aye, he did. And he regretted it. Gods, if only Alysanne had come with him instead of diverting her path to Highgarden. She could have grown up in Winterfell alongside her brothers and sisters, and Jon would have had a confidant aside from Robb and, he supposed, Arya.

Ned worried for Ashara, of course, but he worried for Jon just as much. Matters of the seven kingdoms could wait; he needed to understand. Lyanna's son would always come before war and death.

He found his nephew kneeling before the effigy of his sister. Ned wanted to cry out in sheer frustration, for with every day that passed Jon gave him more and more reason to suspect he knew the truth, and yet there was also substantial evidence that he _did not_ , and was merely a figure of reminiscence and a sentimental mind.

"Jon," he called, trying not to sound exasperated.

His son rose steadily, though he had not yet turned. He gazed up at Lyanna with a fixating reverence. "She died around this time, did she not?"

"Aye," Ned confirmed solemnly. They always shared Lyanna; the memory of her weighed heavily on both of their hearts, but Ned knew that his nephew had reasons of his own in that. "I found her dying of a fever... And then I rode to Starfall, with Arthur Dayne's sword. I returned it to your mother, and there you and Alys were. Red cheeked, wild of hair, and true of heart."

Jon turned to him. There were tear tracks on his cheeks. "She is dead."

Ned frowned. "Yes, Jon. She has been for some time—"

"Not Aunt Lyanna," Jon sucked in a breath and pulled a missive from up his sleeve. The sight of it chipped something away of Ned. It crushed him, broke him, for he knew what Jon's next words would be. "My mother."

 _Both of them, lost to you. Gods, how I have let you down, my son_. He took the scroll gingerly, almost afraid to touch it. He felt strangely numb as his eyes scanned over the words which were written in what must have been his daughter's hand, hasty and littered with water-marks — though whether those belonged to Jon or Alys or the both of them, only the Gods knew.

Ned hated the thought of her, hunched over a desk and crying. And yet he could see it perfectly, so it must be true. His heart crumbled to ash as the weight of the truth took over him. This grievance was not something that Jon should withstand alone, nor he himself.

"Jon..."

"I should have gone to see her," his son whispered. "I should have been with her when she..." His voice broke. He scrunched up his nose in that way Lyanna had done when she was being stubborn and bit down on his lip. "Excuse me, Father."

"Jon—"

"I must pray," said his son, though they both knew it was a lie.

He was gone, leaving Ned shocked and alone to grieve. He crumpled the letter in a shaking fist and fell to his knees. When he closed his eyes he could picture her, spinning in a circle in a dress of the finest purple silk, eyes alight with happiness and the sweetest laugh slipping past her lips.

He missed her. He had not thought of her in so long, and yet there was the feeling. It was there and he could do naught about it or for it. And they had seen one another for the last time on such bitter, crude terms. She had slapped him, had she not? And he had taken Jon from her.

She had never seen him again. Perhaps he had been wrong to do it.

 _Oh, Ashara,_ whispered his thoughts, as though she might hear. _Is this what it feels like for your heart to break?_

* * *

Robert was waiting for him in his solar, a heavy goblet of wine in his hands from which he drank leisurely.

There was nothing in his eyes; no guilt or pain, no sadness, no anger. Merely calm. As though nothing was wrong. As though Tywin Lannister was not steadily advancing north with an army of twenty-thousand, only held off by Howland Reed. As though Ashara Dayne was not dead. Ned's first true love and the mother of his enigmatic daughter.

"Your Grace," Ned greeted hollowly. He unfurled the ruined letter from his hand and spared it a last glance before flicking it into the fire. _Dark wings, dark words._

"You seem upset," Robert observed, though any fool could have seen it. And you should be upset, Ned wanted to retort. _You should be pacing in a leaner form, scratching your chin and pondering your next move with your council around you for guidance. And Jon should not be dead. And Ashara should not be dead. And Lyanna and Brandon and Father. And my daughter should not be thousands of leagues south, bearing a pain I cannot fix._

"Lady Ashara Dayne has passed," Ned said shortly. He, too, poured himself a goblet of wine — though it was watered down and only half-full at that. He would not become Robert.

Robert seemed to care little, though he did at least spare a frown. "She was the mother of your bastard, was she not?"

" _Bastards_ ," Ned corrected, despite his abhorrence of the word. "Alysanne is in Starfall once more, living with her uncle, aunts, and cousins."

Robert nodded. "Ashara was a right little minx," he said, smiling fondly. "It is a shame you were the only one to have your way with her, eh?"

Ned wanted to do so many things in that moment, his body trembled with the desire. The desire to beat his former foster-brother half to death. The desire to throttle him to the ground and deliver blow after blow, for it might have been the only way to make him see sense and rid himself of this heavy hatred. The desire to pack his saddlebags and ride south with Jon and the rest of his kin, to pull Alys into his arms and tell her all would be well, someday.

Instead he forced a smile to his lips; one of pain and bitterness which bore a mask of shared mirth. "Yes," said his mouth. No, hissed his heart.

Robert downed the dregs of his drink and rose to re-fill it. "The wench is dead," he sang, madly, and swayed.

Not yet, he wanted to say, before suddenly he realised... "Oh, Gods," Ned felt the air leave his lungs. He rubbed his temples. "Tell me you did not kill her?"

"Oh, I did." Robert drank. "Drove my axe straight into her chest," Robert drank, "cracked just like Rhaegar's did, oh gods, what a sight..." Robert drank, "blood went everywhere, Ned, you should have seen! Seven hells..." Robert drank and laughed, "she screamed. Would have fucked her corpse too if—"

Ned stood abruptly. "You fool," he whispered, disbelieving. How had Robert become this? What madness had deemed him worthy of such a tainted heart? Why was it that fate singled him out for so many mistakes? And yet the acts which Robert performed were his alone. He had taken delight in them. They would result in such violence. Ned could not have him endangering his family. He could not have him in his home; a very beacon for their enemies. "You complete, and utter fool..."

He was horrified with both himself and the man he was forced to call a king. Dear Gods, what had either of them ever done to deserve such a fate?!

"Say that again!" Robert roared, slamming his chalice down. Wine splashed. "Say that again, you blind bastard!"

"Is your heart so _blackened_?"

"Is your head so frozen?!" Robert stumbled forward. This was all moving far too fast for Ned's liking, and Robert was drunk like Ned had never even seen a man could be. "Tell me, Ned, why I should have kept her alive! Give me a reason, you _fool_!"

And then everything Ned had been feeling; every bad bit and piece, every shatter and smash, came out at once. His heart rate quickened and the blood rushed through his veins as though it was attempting a race. "SHE WAS A _HOSTAGE_!" Ned roared, forgetting himself. "SHE WAS OUR ONLY WEAPON AGAINST TYWIN AND NOW SHE IS GONE!"

Robert aimed a blow, but he missed for Ned dodged it with ease. This seemed to frustrate him even more. "I SHOULD HAVE YOUR HEAD ON A SPIKE!" He yelled. "WE HAVE HIS SON, NED!"

Ned shook his head in utter disbelief. Was Robert truly such an... An irrational idiot? "Do you honestly think that a man as prideful as Tywin Lannister bears his STUNTED SON A SECOND THOUGHT?! YOU ARE MAD!"

"I?!" Robert tried to tackle him. He only succeeded in throwing himself into the wall behind Ned and cursing every god who had ever been named. Ned winced, though not in sympathy.

"We had a chance," he hissed. "We could have exchanged both Cersei and Tyrion for a truce. Even Jamie, had you not been so _FUCKING RASH!_ "

He never swore. Not ever. Not even as a boy, he had refused to speak such cruel words. And never when the children were only rooms away, most like having awoken at the sounds of their voices and growing concerned.

But damn it all to hell, he wanted to murder Robert in that moment.

The king took advantage of that momentary pause between them. He lunged, and suddenly fist was colliding with face. Ned's cheekbone was aflame. He cupped it, not even bothering to cry out or gasp, for of course Robert would punch him. "In the name of your sister, Ned, see sense," Robert panted, trying to be menacing.

Ned straightened. There was that darkness. "She never loved you," he spat, like he should not have. "She never wanted you."

"Well, now I have no one," Robert hissed, red and shaking. He looked more angry than Ned had ever seen him. "Perhaps I should take that bastard girl of yours. If she's as pretty as Ashara Dayne—"

The door swung open. Cat was there, braided hair a mess and eyes wide. Jory and Robb were behind her, and Ned suspected even more were close behind them. "Is all well?" She asked, though every soul in the keep knew that it was not. "Ned?"

"GET OUT, YOU FOOLISH CUNT!"

That was a step too far. Ned felt a fire churn in his stomach, which rushed through him and took over his body. He grabbed Robert by the collar of his over-stretched jerkin and slammed him into a wall. "DO NOT SPEAK TO MY WIFE IN THAT MATTER, YOU DAMNABLE _BASTARD_!"

Robert opened his mouth for more bitter words to spill out, but Ned avoided them by pulling him away, mustering all of his strength, and hauling him into the wall again. The wood rattled. Cat cried out. There were tears in her eyes; she was truly frightened.

Robb and Jory pushed through. Robb pulled Ned off of his former friend while Jory threw himself at the king to stabilise him. "Father," Robb placed his hands, so cool they were, on either side of Ned's face and met his eyes. Robb's own were pleading and full of sheer disbelief. He had never seen Ned this way. No one had.

No one living, anyway.

Brandon, Ned remembered. Brandon had seen him roar and rage just the once, after mother had died. _Perhaps you have more wolf-blood than I previously thought,_ he had said breathlessly, and they had both erupted into peals of hysterical laughter.

Ned was not laughing now. His face contorted into the most twisted of scowls and he jerked himself out of Robb's grasp. "Get him out of my sight," he growled, toward Robert.

There was no love between them, now.

* * *

Ned sat on the edge of their bed, head hung, as she wrung out a washcloth.

Cat approached him and gently raised his chin. She pressed the rag to his bleeding skin. It stung. Ned winced, but he did not make any other noise or sign of the pain. She treated the wound tenderly after that.

"What will you do?" She asked.

The question was a deadly one. "I want to send him for Tywin to finish off, and speak the truth that I had little to do with the execution of his two most beloved children."

"Oh, Ned..." She dabbed the spot on his cheek again, once again careful to mind the broken bones beneath his skin and kissed his brow. "What did you think was going to happen when you outed Jamie and Cersei? That he would take it kindly?"

"I thought he would take it _rationally_ ," Ned corrected. "I thought he would listen to my council."

"Was he rational with the Targaryen babes?" Cat asked. "Was he rational with Rhaegar and Lyanna? Was he rational with you? When, Ned, has he ever listened to your council?"

She had a point, Ned realised begrudgingly. He scowled and balled his fists. "I was unwise," he confessed. "I made a mistake."

"But what will you do about it? You have as good as betrayed your King. You actually have, considering you assaulted him physically and detained him as well. There is little chance he will overlook this, my love."

"And if it comes to war?" He raised a brow.

She sighed. "Then I will stand by your side. As I always have."

She pressed her lips to his, then, very softly. Ned cupped her cheek, feeling as though the weight was being removed from his shoulders at last.

But just as quickly as it went, it came again in the form of a knock on the door. "Come in," they called together, separating. Cat wrung out the cloth once more. In slipped Robb, Jon, and, surprisingly, Theon. Jory had walked with them, but he merely nodded to Ned — who nodded back — and closed the door behind his brood.

"King Robert is passed out in his chambers with three of our men guarding the door," Robb reported. "His own men are a floor below guarding an empty chamber." Stiffly his eldest son sat before the empty hearth and hung his head in his hands. "Why did you have to tackle him, Father?"

Was he... Being reprimanded by his own son? Blinking in bemusement, Ned made to answer, but Cat beat him to it. "He was defending my honour," she said fondly, shaking out the rag and hanging it to dry.

Robb looked between them incredulously. "You act as though there is nothing wrong," he whispered, tone horrified. "Have you both gone mad?! We are on the brink of a war! We... With the King! Gods, Father, what will we do? Please speak!"

Ned stared at his son for a long moment. Then he rose, crossed the room, and sat across from him. He took one of Robb's hands in his own. "I must thank you for stopping me before things went further," he said.

"Things could have gone further?!" Theon demanded. His eyes were wide. There was some form of respect in them, though. Ned was glad to see it, though he was not glad for the circumstances which had made it so.

Ned nodded, and turned back to Robb. "I am mad, Robb," he said quietly. "With grief and loss, I am afraid. But that is no excuse for my actions tonight. I fear... The stress of the last few days has put a great weight on me, and with winter coming I... Lost all sense. It will not happen again. I promise you."

Robb swallowed. Then he closed his eyes and, for a while, Ned was kept waiting. His son had always been stubborn and set as Brandon had been, and brave. Always brave. But now he was shaking — it was slight enough for only Ned to notice but it was there all the same.

"What will we do?" Robb asked again, at last.

Ned's heart stopped for only a split second. It was Lyanna's voice that spoke to him, then; Fight, she whispered, while Ashara screamed in the background; _Do not give up. You loved me and I loved you. I was yours and you were mine. Protect them for me, Ned._

It was a strange moment, and in an instant it was gone. Ned sighed. "We call the banners," he said, eyeing them. "Have the nearest of them here by midday tomorrow, I care not how long they have to ride for. We will have them assemble in the wolfswood, out of view, but there should we need them. Robb, tell Luwin."

His son nodded, and with that he had dashed out. "Is there anything you need from me, my lord?" Theon waited earnestly.

"Help Robb," he ordered.

Theon nodded, grateful, and then was gone. That left Ned, Cat, and Jon. It was certainly odd. He did not think he had been alone with the two of them... Ever. Yes, this was the first time. "Jon," he said, for he needed to address the issue.

Jon looked up. He had been staring forlornly at the floor. There was a sort of shocked rawness to him then that drew Ned toward the boy. He gripped the back of his neck and studied his face, stared deep into those eyes which had aged before their time. "You need to be strong," he said. They both knew the truth of strength, and they knew the truth of their hearts.

Jon gave him a half-smile. "Isn't that all I've ever been?"

Ned allowed himself a startled laugh and looked down at their touching boots. "No matter what," he said, "she will be beside you. She will love you and protect you like I cannot. Do you understand me, Jon?"

"Aye." Jon's voice had turned to steel.

"Alert the guards," Ned told him, releasing his grip. "Make sure there are a sufficient number outside Sansa and Arya's chambers. Keep the wolves at bay, and do not allow Robert's men to know of what transpired tonight."

Jon nodded. Then he was gone, as well.

Cat had been watching them. "What was that about, if I may ask, my lord husband?"

"Ashara... She has passed." Ned swallowed down his bitterness and pain. "Jon told me in the crypts before the fight. I worry for him, and Alys."

Cat flinched, near imperceptibly. Ned pretended not to see. "She remains in the south?"

 _You fear she is slinking north under the cover of shadow to take all that you hold dear?_ "She does." Alys had always been a sore spot between them. Cat had grown used to Jon. One might even say she cared for him. Not as her own, to tell it true, but enough. More than Ned would have asked of her.

But Alys... There were whispers amongst the servants that she was Ashara come again. A true beauty, like Cat feared she could never have been. It was hard to see, in a boy... But in Ashara's own daughter? There was the ice that had grown which Ned had tried so hard to defrost.

Cat had put up a wall, again. Her face was a mask of stone. "I will call upon Lysa and my brother, Edmure. I must warn him."

"Yes, you must," Ned agreed. "Tywin is far too close to Riverrun for any comfort."

She nodded with agreement and glided over to her writing desk to compose her letters. Ned stared down at his hands. They were not shaking. Was he foolish, or merely struck with insanity? Why was he so calm?

 _It must be the shock,_ he decided. And then he fell to his knees and wept.

* * *

 **AN: I've never been more nervous than I am now. The feedback from all of you has been wonderful, and yet I find myself SO ANXIOUS about this update. It's just so risky, because maybe some of you won't think it's realistic. I mean, it is. Ned is in shock, he's upset, he's not thinking rationally (and grief affects everyone in different ways, every time). Robert has lost so much over the past few weeks, he's drunk - basically neither of them are sound of mind. But things are pretty broken between them, now. It's bad, and I'm concerned you lot won't like it. But the happy fun times are over, so... sorry!**

 **Review. Do it. I'm ready.**


	14. Alysanne II

FOURTEEN: ALYSANNE (II)

She ran a hand over the thick shroud. It was purple silk, embroidered with pretty things like stars and mwhoons and suns, even swords, and there, on each corner, a wolf.

 _Melina has truly come to accept mother. How odd, considering her letters often consisted of distain and harsh words that had been exchanged between the two. Yes, her mother often complained of dear Melina..._

Alys blinked. Then she sighed. There was no use in pointing fingers; not just yet. There would be time for that later.

Her hand stopped on her mother's stomach, where her womb was. She had been carried there for nine months, with Jon beside her, though she had no memory of it. Why would she? No one did. But she wished then that she could just... Remember the feel of him beside her. In a womb, in the beds they had shared when they were scared or excited. She wished they were back in Highgaden as little children, curled up beside Margaery, Loras, Garlan, Willas and Allyria — their dearest friends.

Did Jon have friends of his own, now? Did she, or were they the same ones she'd had for so long? She could not think of anyone she considered a friend that he did not know.

 _Now you are thinking inane thoughts_ , hissed the stable part of her mind — what little part of it was. _Who cares about any of this? You must go to him._

Yes, she had to. She had to find her brother and hold him in her arms and whisper words of love and loss and past.

But she could not.

"My lady," Garlan came up beside her, tenderly taking her unused hand in his own. She liked the feel of his touch; it sent little sparks up and down her spine and throughout the rest of her body. She turned to him, seeing those now mirthless blue eyes staring down at her. He was concerned. Worried, even.

"Sweet Garlan," she whispered, resting her heavy head on his chest. "Thank you for coming with me."

"I will follow you anywhere," he replied, kissing the top of her head. He could do that, for he was so tall. When he had grown so she did not know. Once he had been a small spindly boy who giggled when he saw a rainbow through a prism. Now he was an anointed knight and _tall_.

"Your uncle awaits," Garlan told her at last. "Do you wish to see him?"

Some of her did and some of her did not. It was hard to determine how she felt, anymore. Where was reason? Where had it gone? Had it died with mother? Or had it left with Jon? Or... Was it still there? Dancing just out of reach, she decided. There but also not, like her heart.

"Do you know the way?" She asked Garlan.

"Of course." Garlan's brow furrowed. "My lady, are you well?"

"No." She smiled. "Lead the way, Garlan."

* * *

Her uncle met her not in his solar but in his rooms. He had a desk there, as well. Why he did not just use that, Alys did not know. Perhaps the bed made it less intimidating. She nearly giggled at the thought.

Aron stood. Swiftly he kissed each of her cheeks and dismissed Garlan, who waited for her bid nonetheless. When it was given, he nodded and marched out.

"Have you thought any more about my words?" Aron asked. "About not going after your Father?"

 _Oh, my foolish uncle, I will go anyway._ "Yes." She sat and laced her fingers. "As I have said I will stay. Why do you bring it up again?"

Her uncle worried his lip. "I have received news that the Queen and her brother have been taken captive. It would appear that they were involved in an... Incestuous coupling, niece. Your father and the king have them housed in cells beneath Winterfell."

"Good," Alys said, quite disinterested. Something told her she should not be. A light by Aron's window caught her eye.

 _A prism,_ she thought, smiling pleasantly. _Oh, I love those._

She rose to her feet and went to watch it, thinking to perhaps catch the colours as she and Jon had once pretended to do. Her uncle was frowning. Gods, why was he always frowning? What was he so upset about?

Oh, yes, her mother. Her dead mother.

Her mother was dead.

Alys's hand closed around the prism just in time. When she fainted, it was ripped from its post and came down with her.

* * *

 _The room smelt of blood and roses._

 _She lay in a pool of crimson, her hands weak at her sides and useless. She had held her baby once. Her sweet little Jaehaerys, oh how she loved him. So innocent, and likely to be used as a pawn in the game beloved by so many. How could she protect him as she desired when she was dying?_

 _Lyanna coughed. Red sprayed; all over her pale white skin and shift. Her babe's wails filled the air. How she loved him... So sweet... Like a winter rose. He would grow strong like one, too._

 _The door burst open. There he was in all of his glory, covered in dirt and grime and blood like her. One more thing they would have in common before she died. "Lyanna," he said, not understanding. "Lyanna..."_

 _"Ned." She smiled when she said his name, not to herself or her husband or the wind but to him, for he was here. Alive and before her. He was broader than she remembered him to be. And more solemn. She supposed that was to be expected with the deaths of Brandon and their father._

 _That had been her fault, hadn't it? Oh, how foolish she had been. But she loved Rhaegar. He was so good and kind and smart, and he knew her. He cared for her like Robert never would. Like Robert never could. That man was incapable of anything but fucking and drinking._

 _He smiled down at her. How hard he was trying. Ned had always loved her the best. Always looked out for her the most. "You're not a dream..."_

 _"No," Ned came closer, took her hand. His were so warm... Or were her own just freezing with death's grip?_

 _"Why... What happened to you? Did they hurt you? Where is your Maester? Water! She needs water! Can you not see—?"_

 _He was yelling at her handmaidens, pleading them and being the blind boy he was. "No," she said. Just that made her breathless. "No water, just listen—"_

 _"But Lya..." He cupped her cheek. "Please don't..."_

 _"Just listen, Ned." She stroked his soft cheek, with what little strength she could muster, and smiled at the image of him. Slowly she leaned forward, though that... Oh, it hurt. "His name is Jaehaerys Targaryen. Robert will kill him if he finds out. You have to protect him, Ned."_

 _All of the sudden it seemed to dawn upon him. When he looked back at her as she settled against the moist, bloody pillow, she could see that he was afraid. The babe was placed in his arms. So quiet, he was, like Ned and Rhaegar and Father and Ben. A Stark, he was. Long of face just as she was and dark of eye. She had seen him. So innocent..._

 _Ned looked back up at her. "You're going to be fine, Lya," he said. "You're going to—"_

 _"You have to protect him, Ned," she insisted, tears stinging her eyes. She blinked them away. "Promise me."_

 _"Lyanna—"_

 _"Promise me!" It took everything — everything — to get him to understand how much this meant. This was her babe. Her son with Rhaegar Targaryen. He had to protect Jaehaerys. He had to keep him safe from their enemies, for enemies there were._

 _"I-I promise." Ned looked from her to Jae and nodded._

 _She was going to die. The realisation came so suddenly that it stopped her heart. After that it beat more slowly, tapering off into nothing. Oh, how afraid she was. Father would be furious when he saw her again. "I want to be brave..."_

 _"You are," Ned said, wildly. "You're going to be fine."_

 _She smiled. He was still so young. He was going to protect her son. They would be fine. They had to be._

 _She felt her hand slip away from his cheek, losing all feeling in the limb. Then her legs went numb, and her chest and her face and she could not blink. There was Rhaegar, wonderful Rhaegar, reaching out a hand to pull her into his mount, as he had done when they had escaped from Harrenhal._

 _Lyanna died._

* * *

Alys's eyes fluttered open, weakly and hesitantly, expecting to be met with the piercing brightness of the sun.

Instead her gaze found the dark fabric of a bed curtain, drawn tightly around a frame that was not her own. _Uncle Aron,_ she realised.

It was as she made to sit up that the dream came rushing back to her all at once. "Not a dream," she whispered to herself though her tears. "A memory." The memory of the death of Lyanna Stark. She knew it to be so, for the feeling of it had been so real, the sight so vivid.

Jon's mother was Lyanna Stark.

She sobbed, head between her knees, digging her palms into the back of her skull as though she could force the knowledge out and away from her. But it would not leave. It would stay with her, in her heart and in her bones.

Jon was not her brother. Jon was the true-born son of Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen. _Jaehaerys Targaryen, fourth of his name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

Her brother the king. Her cousin the king. Her twin the lie.

No, she thought suddenly. No, he will always be my brother. I do not care who denies it, even if it is he himself. Jon is a Dayne of Starfall. That is his name. He is my twin brother. My best friend. My other half. Our mother is dead and I miss him with all of my heart.

These were the truths she knew. She cared not for anything else. Those words were all she had.

She was going to find her brother.

Quickly Alys slipped out of bed. It was nighttime, mercifully. She grabbed her discarded jerkin and laced it over her tunic, and then did the same with her boots. She worked quickly, for surely someone must have heard her cry and sent for her uncle or Ally.

 _Ally_.

She did not know, did she? Did Aron? Rage filled her at the thought of them keeping such a secret, but she kept composed. She had her truths and her purpose. There were no time for foolish goodbyes. She had to do this soon or not at all.

Without them, for surely they had lied. She could not see her mother keeping such a secret to herself. It would tear her apart, as it was already doing to Alys.

They would not let her go, she reasoned, reaching for her bow. She had to leave in secret. They could not be made aware of her true absence or they would try to stop her. But she had to get to him. She had to tell him.

It was then that she paused, taking a moment just to breathe. These few seconds of selfishness were all she would have for who knew how long. Precious... She recalled her mother's laugh, and the feeling of comfort that was drawn from her brother right beside her. She needed at least one of those things again. That was all. Otherwise she would not make it through this life.

 _I am desperate,_ she thought. _Desperate and alone_.

 _No... I have Garlan._

Alys pulled her door open slowly and cautiously. There was no guard outside. Perhaps they had left to find Aron.

Gripping her bag, with her weapons slung and stowed, she scurried across the hall to Garlan's chambers, praying that he had not been the one to sentry for her tonight. Thankfully, the door was opened in little time.

"Pack your things," she said, hurried. "Now. We are leaving."

Instantly his expression changed from one of shock to pity. "Alys," he said, voice low, "you are not well."

The memory of her laughing over a prism and what her uncle had told her came back just then. She flushed with shame and fury. "I know I wasn't," she said to him, pushing inside and grabbing his hands in her own. Truly she did. She knew that she had been acting half mad. "Perhaps I am still not quite well, but I am well enough for this."

"For what?" Garlan's brow was furrowed.

Alys thought how to explain without sounding insane. "I had a dream," she said slowly. "I dreamt of my Aunt Lyanna on her deathbed, as she gave birth to a son."

His eyes flashed. "What is this you speak of?" He demanded, seating her on the trunk at the end of his bed. "Tell it all and tell it true."

And so she did, stumbling over her words once or twice and biting back sobs at the other. How wonderful it had been to see the face of her father again, even under such circumstances. And Jon... Jon had been solemn even as a babe.

It took Garlan not five minutes to absorb her words. "Very well," he said, grim. "If this is what you have seen... I cannot think of any such trick a mind would play. It must have been a message from the Gods."

Relief coursed through her. She was so glad, she rushed forward and kissed him. Garlan's entire body was warm and it felt so safe. She tangled her fingers in his soft brown tresses and let herself be free, blissful even for just a moment.

They were both kneeling on the floor, in the dark, when she pulled away. "I know I cannot do this alone," she whispered. "To have you with me... That is a blessing, as well."

His lips grazed her own, hot and wet and lovely. Alys pulled his neck downward, not able to wait any longer. They kissed for so long they were both panting by the time they pulled back. One of Garlan's hands was on her waist, the other near her breast.

She could see the lust in his eyes. Alys felt her stomach flip. A pain coursed through her centring from down there and she knew what it meant. "I want to," she whispered, for she did. So, so badly. "But we cannot. We do not have the time, and there are more important things."

"The sun will rise soon," he agreed, albeit regretful, and kissed her once more, softly.

Unsteadily she drew away and pulled herself up. "We must go," she said. "Grab your sword and lightest armour."

He nodded and did as she instructed. She helped him fasten it, delivering one last chaste kiss to his burning lips before they snuck out, slipping through the keep she knew so well under the cover of night and shadow.

They were half-way across The Star Hall, near her cousin and aunt's chambers. It was then that they heard the voices; Aron and Allyria, conversing with one another in hushed tones.

"I worry for her," Aron was saying. "She is nearing on insanity. If she finds out—"

"She will not." Allyria, Alys could see, was walking beside her uncle. They knew. So they known and they had lied. It had to have been what they were discussing, for what else? Aron had already told her about the king and queen — which now horrified her to no end — and her mother was dead. Alys would not forget that.

"Come," said Aron. "Jon says she was crying. We must make haste."

 _Do indeed, dear uncle_ , she thought, bitterly. _See that I have escaped._

Alys watched them round a corner. "We have little time," she whispered to Garlan. He nodded. They ran down the rest of the hall, feet making no noise for they had mastered the art of stealth long before.

"Alys!"

She stopped short, fear gripping her heartstrings, but it was only little Edric. He stood in his nightclothes with a frown on his small pink lips. Alys gestured for Garlan to wait, though she knew she should not she did anyway for Edric was family and innocent.

"I heard voices," he said uncertainly, eyeing her leathers. "Where are you going? Should you not be sleeping?"

Alys studied her little cousin for a moment longer. Then she rushed forward and pecked him between the eyes. She had read once, as a little girl, that in the north such a gesture was believed to aid for better sight. "I love you," she told him. "Do not tell them where I have gone. Now, back to bed."

"But wait, Alys..." Edric bit his lip. "I'll go with you. Please."

She paused. _Seven hells, am I truly considering the plea of a child?_ And yet she was. Madly again. Perhaps Targaryen blood was strong with her, as well.

"Oh, damn them all," she hissed. "Get your clothes on. Do you have a weapon?" He shook his head. She could hear the calls of a guard from the floor above, signalling that Aron and Ally had discovered her absence. "Go! Hurry!"

Garlan removed his blade from its sheath. He grabbed her arm. "Truly?" He asked.

"He is my blood," she said. It was explanation enough.

Edric returned only a few seconds later, in proper clothes and a leather jerkin that was only slightly too small for him. Alys nodded in approval. She took his hand and they ran.

Through the corridors and out into the courtyard. By that time little Ed was panting and red-cheeked. He would not last long with them, she thought, already regretting her decision. But it had been made and that was that.

"Grab a horse," she told him. "Quickly."

Alys was about to make for her own when she noticed Quicksilver's daughter, Silverwing, in the stable beside it. There was a reason for their names. On pure instinct she saddled and mounted it, with Garlan and Edric beside her. She could hear nothing. There was only darkness and death hanging over her like a looming shadow.

"I must be mad," she whispered. "Go, Silverwing! Show us the meaning of haste!"

* * *

 **AN: You guys know what that last like alluded to. Ah, Shadowfax. Anyway, sorry this update is like years late!**

 **Yo, Bill, sup. You're not rude, it's totally okay. Here's some low-level shade, though, because a) you reviewed under guest and I freaking hate that [it means I can't reply, which sucks, because you have things to say and I have things to say, and only you get to say things, but now I'm saying things to clarify for not just you but everyone], and b) apparently my writing is far too unrealistic for you.**

 ***inhales* Okay, here we go. Of course it was within his right to execute them, omg, but doing so would LITERALLY cause a war. Obviously. Inevitably. And WHO wants that? Ned advised against that. He didn't back Robert because even though it's perfectly within Robert's rights to preform executions, it's a stupid move to make. The intelligent move would be to hold them hostage, work out the situation, maybe execute one, and keep one alive as a permanent hostage to ensure Tywin's good-will. Or some variation thereof.**

 **Nobody is trading anyone for a truce. No one. Ned was delirious, panicking, and upset. He was thinking irrationally. And bro, if anyone hates Tywin, it's me. I don't think he's a god. I never said or alluded to his nonexistent godliness. No, he has no special transportation powers - currently he's meant to be approaching the Riverlands, he's not meant to be in the Neck, and ** _if anything to the contrary is written anywhere in this fic I need you guys to tell me asap**_ \- but to clarify, Tywin and his big-ass army are somewhere between Golden Tooth and Pinkmaiden, heading north. **

**It's not just the Westerlands. Tywin has plans, too. But it's also not the whole of Westeros, either; it's the west, and north, and Riverrun is about to face some shit, so them, too. Just those three. All of the others have yet to declare. And last I checked, Cersei and Lysa haven't replied to my text messages; they haven't told me anything, despite my glorifying them. You'd think differently, given their egotism, but no.**

 **Ned hasn't done nothing. Just because I haven't written that he's done the obvious thing one would do, doesn't mean it hasn't happened. Right now, there are plenty of men defending Most Cailin, but given its like, freaking impossible to get a massive army through the Neck, no one is particularly concerned about Northern invasions, just now. They've got their eye on Riverrun.**

 **How is Ned weak? Like? He just stood up for his wife and family, against his king and friend, which took MASSIVE courage? He's lost his first love, and is under superb amounts of stress, smh. He's not some god, Bill. He can't do everything.**

 **And he hasn't chosen Tywin at all, just to clarify that again.**

 **Anyway, sorry for the massive AN. You guys don't have to read it, but I would encourage you to, because if you're confused about certain plot points, it might help. I love you all. I love Bill. Bill is great. I'm just tired and the holidays are like _up in my friggin face_ so I'm sorry if my shade is at a higher level than intended, and that I did this ^^^ **

**Bye xx**


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